UC-NRLF 


B    3    S7T    EIS 


i<(fl&L^ 


■^^^^ 


THE 


rAiNir 


^Jfiu 


HALL  CAINE'S  BOOKS. 

UNIFORM    EDITION. 


**  The  author  exhibits  a  mastery  of  the  elemental  pas- 
sions of  life  that  places  him  high  among  the  foretnost  of 
present  writers  of  fiction.''' — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


The  Christian. 

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The  Manxman. 

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The  Deemster.     {Fifteenth  edition:) 

A  Romance  of  the  Isle  of  Man.  i2ino.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

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The  Scape§fOat.     {New  edition.) 
i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

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A  Manx  Yarn.     i2ino.     Cloth,  $1.00 ;  paper,  50 
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New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  72  Fifth  Ave. 


THE     DEEMSTER 


A   ROMANCE 


'  '  HALL^CAINE^ 

AUTHOR   OF   THE    MANXMAn/'tHE    BONDMAN,    ETC, 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1898 


• 


'i:^  3.-^^^,:  :  :.,*.m 


Authorized  Edition, 


NOTE 

Ml/  thanks  are  due  to  my  friend  and  fellow- 
countryman  the  Author  of  "  Fo'c's'le  Yams  "  for  some 
racy  touches  of  Manx  character,  and  to  Mr.  A.  W. 
Moore,  Member  of  the  Manx  Legislature,  and  Sir 
James  Gell,  Attorney-General  in  the  Isle  of  Man, 
for  much  valuable  information  concerning  the  extra- 
ordinarij  powers  of  the  old  Spiritual  Baronies  of 
that  island,  the  scene  of  my  story. 


952111 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

I.   THE  DEATH  OF  OLD    EWAN  . 

II.  A  MAN  CHILD  IS  BOEN 

III.  THE  CHRISTENING  OF  YOUNG  EWAN 

IV.  THE  DEEMSTER  OF  MAN 

V.   THE  MANXMAN'S  BISHOP       . 
VI.   THE  COSY  NEST  AT  BISHOP'S  COURT 
VII.  DANNY,  THE  MADCAP 
VIII.   PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMEN 
IX.   THE  SERVICE  ON  THE  SHORE 

X.   THE  FIRST  NIGHT  WITH  THE  HERRINGS 
XL  THE  HERRING  BREAKFAST    . 

xn.  dan's  penance 

XIIL   HOW  EWAN  MOURNED  FOR  HIS  WIFE 
XIV.  WRESTLING  WITH  FATE 
XV.  THE  LIE  THAT  EWAN  TOLD 
XVI.  THE   PLOUGHING  MATCH 
XVII.   THE  WRONG  WAY  WITH  DAN 
XVIII.   THE  BLIND  WOMAN'S  SECOND  SIGHT 
XIX.   HOW  EWAN  POUND  DAN 

XX.  BLIND  PASSION  AND  PAIN     . 

XXI.  THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT    . 
XXn.  ALONE,  ALONE — ^ALL,   ALL  ALONE  I 

XXIII.  ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,   WIDE  SEA 
XXIV.    *•  THERE'S  GOLD  ON  THE  CUSHAGS  YET" 
XXV.  A  RESURRECTION  INDEED     . 
XXVI.  HOW  EWAN  CAME  TO  CHURCH 


PAOB 

I 

7 

14 
21 
29 
40 

51 
62 
70 
76 

85 

90 

96 

99 

105 

114 

121 

125 
132 

137 
150 
162 
170 

177 
181 
190 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 
XXVn.  HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  THE  BISHOP 

XXVin.  THE  CHILD  GHOST  IN  THE  HOUSE 
XXIX.  BY  BISHOP'S   LAW  OE  DEEMSTEB'S 
XXX.  THE  deemster's  INQUEST 
XXXI.   FATHEE  AND  SON 

XXXII.  DIVINATION 

XXXIII.   KIDNAPPED 

XXXIV.  A  EUDE  TEIBUNAL 
XXXV.   THE  COUET  OP  GENEEAL  GAOL  DELIVEEY 

XXXVI.   CUT  OFF  FEOM  THE  PEOPLE 


PAGE 
20 1 

210 

218 

226 

252 
261 
269 
276 


THE  BRIEF  RELATION  OF  DANIEL  MYLREA. 

XXXVIL   OF  HIS  OUTCAST  STATE    .....     286 

XXXVIIL  OF  HIS  WAY  OF  LIFE         .               .               .               .  .     29I 

XXXIX.  OF  THE  GHOSTLY  HAND  UPON  HIM         ,               .  .295 

XL.  OP  HIS  GEEAT  LONELINESS            .               .               .  .     304 

XLL  OP  HOW  HE  KEPT  HIS  MANHOOD              ,               .  •      S" 

XLIL  OF  THE  BEEAKING  OP  THE  CUESB                          ,  .     319 

XLIII.  OP  HIS  GEEAT  EESOLVB   .               .               .               ,  .327 

XLIV.  THE  SWEATING   SICKNESS                .               .               .  .331 

XLV.   "OUE  FATHEE,  WHICH  AET  IN  HEAVEN"          ,  .     357 


THE    DEEMSTER 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    DEATH    OF    OLD    EWAN 

Thorkell  Mylrea  had  waited  long  for  a  dead  man's  shoes, 
but  he  was  wearing  them  at  length.  He  was  forty  years  of 
age  ;  his  black  hair  was  thin  on  the  crown  and  streaked 
with  grey  about  the  temples;  the  crows'  feet  were  thick 
under  his  small  eyes,  and  the  backs  of  his  lean  hands  were 
coated  with  a  reddish  down.  But  he  had  life  in  every  vein, 
and  restless  energy  in  every  limb. 

His  father,  Ewan  Mylrea,  had  lived  long,  and  mourned 
much,  and  died  in  sorrow.  The  good  man  had  been  a 
patriarch  among  his  people,  and  never  a  serener  saint  had 
trod  the  ways  of  men.  He  was  already  an  old  man  when 
his  wife  died.     Over  her  open  grave  he  tried  to  say,  "  The 

Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;   blessed " 

But  his  voice  faltered  and  broke.  Though  he  lived  ten 
years  longer,  he  held  up  his  head  no  more.  Little  by  little 
he  relinquished  all  active  interest  in  material  affairs.  The 
world  had  lost  its  light  for  him,  and  he  was  travelling  in 
the  dusk. 

On  his  sons,  Thorkell,  the  elder,  Gilcrist,  the  younger, 
with  nearly  five  years  between  them,  the  conduct  of  his 
estate  devolved.  Never  were  brothers  more  unlike.  Gil- 
crist, resembling  his  father,  was  of  a  simple  and  tranquil  soul ; 
Thorkell's  nature  was  fiery,  impetuous,  and  crafty.  The  end 
was  the  inevitable  one  ;  the  heel  of  Thorkell  was  too  soon 
on  the  neck  of  Gilcrist. 

Gilcrist's  placid  spirit  overcame  its  first  vexation,  and  he 
seemed  content  to  let   his   interests   slip   from   his   hands. 


.    THE   DEEMSTER 


Before  a '  year  was  out  Thorkell  Mylrea  was  in  effect  the 
master  of  Ballamona;  his  younger  brother  was  nightly  im- 
mersed in  astronomy  and  the  Fathers,  and  the  old  man  was 
sitting  daily,  in  his  slippers,  in  the  high-backed  arm-chair  by 
the  ingle,  over  which  these  words  were  cut  in  the  black  oak  : 
"  God's  Providence  is  mine  inheritance." 

They  were  strange  effects  that  followed.  People  said  they 
had  never  understood  the  extraordinaiy  fortunes  of  Balla- 
mona. Again  and  again  the  rents  were  raised  throughout 
the  estate,  until  the  farmers  cried  in  the  grip  of  their  poverty 
that  they  would  neither  go  nor  starve.  Then  the  waggons 
of  Thorkell  Mylrea,  followed  close  at  their  tail-boards  by  the 
carts  of  the  clergy,  drove  into  the  cornfields  when  the  com 
was  cut,  and  picked  up  the  stocks  and  bore  them  away  amid 
the  deep  curses  of  the  bare-armed  reapers,  who  looked  on  in 
their  impotent  rage. 

Nevertheless,  Thorkell  Mylrea  said,  far  and  wide,  without 
any  show  of  reserve,  and  with  every  accent  of  sincerity,  that 
never  before  had  his  father's  affJairs  worn  so  grave  a  look. 
He  told  Ewan  as  much  time  after  time,  and  then  the  troubled 
old  face  looked  puzzled.  The  end  of  many  earnest  consulta- 
tions between  father  and  son,  as  the  one  sat  by  the  open 
hearth  and  the  other  leaned  against  the  lettered  ingle,  was 
a  speedy  recourse  to  certain  moneys  that  lay  at  an  English 
bank,  as  well  as  the  old  man's  signature  to  documents  of 
high  moment. 

Old  Ewan's  spirits  sank  yet  lower  year  by  year,  but  he 
lived  on  peacefully  enough.  As  time  went  by,  he  talked 
less,  and  his  humid  eyes  seemed  to  look  within  in  degree  as 
they  grew  dim  to  things  without.  But  the  day  came  at 
length  when  the  old  man  died  in  his  chair,  before  the  slum- 
berous peat  fire  on  the  hearth,  quietly,  silently,  without  a 
movement,  his  graspless  fingers  fumbling  a  worm-eaten  hour- 
glass, his  long  waves  of  thin  white  hair  falling  over  his  droop- 
ing shoulders,  and  his  upturned  eyes  fixed  in  a  stony  stare 
on  the  text  carved  on  the  rannel-tree  shelf,  "  God's  Provi- 
dence is  mine  inheritance." 

That  night  Thorkell  sat  alone  at  the  same  ingle,  in  the 
same  chair,  glancing  at  many  parchments  and  dropping 
them  one  by  one  into  the  fire.  Long  afterwards,  when  idle 
tongues  were  set  to  wag,  it  was  said  that  the  elder  son  of 
Ewan  Mylrea  had  found  a  means  whereby  to  sap  away  his 

2 


THE   DEATH   OF   OLD   EWAN 

father's  personalty.  Then  it  was  remembered  that  through 
all  his  strange  misfortunes  Thorkell  had  borne  an  equal 
countenance. 

They  buried  the  old  man  under  the  elder  tree  by  the  wall 
of  the  churchyard  that  stands  over  against  the  sea.  It 
seemed  as  if  half  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  came  to  his 
funeol,  and  six  sets  of  bearers  claimed  their  turn  to  carry 
him  to  the  grave.  The  day  was  a  gloomy  day  of  winter ; 
there  was  not  a  bird  or  a  breath  in  the  heavy  air ;  the  sky 
was  low  and  empty ;  the  long  dead  sea  was  very  grey  and 
cold ;  and  over  the  unploughed  land  the  withered  stalks  of 
the  last  crop  lay  dank  on  the  mould.  When  the  company 
returned  to  Ballamona  they  sat  down  to  eat  and  drink  and 
make  merry,  for  "  excessive  sorrow  is  exceeding  dry."  No 
one  asked  for  the  will ;  there  was  no  will  because  there  was 
no  personalty,  and  the  lands  were  by  law  the  inheritance  of 
the  eldest  son.  Thorkell  was  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and 
he  smiled  a  little,  and  sometimes  reached  over  the  board  to 
touch  with  his  glass  the  glass  that  was  held  out  towards  him. 
Gilcrist  had  stood  with  these  mourners  under  the  empty  sky, 
and  his  heart  was  as  bare  and  desolate,  but  he  could  endure 
their  company  no  longer.  In  an  agony  of  grief  and  remorse, 
and  rage  as  well,  he  got  up  from  his  untouched  food  and 
walked  away  to  his  own  room.  It  was  a  little,  quiet  nest  of 
a  room  that  looked  out  by  one  small  window  over  the  marshy 
Curraghs  that  lay  between  the  house  and  the  sea.  There 
Gilcrist  sat  alone  that  day  in  a  sort  of  dull  stupor. 

The  daylight  had  gone,  and  the  lamps  on  the  headland  of 
Ayre  were  twinkling  over  the  blank  waters,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Thorkell  entered.  Gilcrist  stirred  the  fire,  and 
it  broke  into  a  bright  blaze.  Thorkell's  face  wore  a  curious 
expression. 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  you,  Gilcrist; 
especially  during  the  last  few  days.  In  fact,  I  have  been 
troubled  about  you,  to  say  the  truth,"  said  Thorkell,  and  then 
he  paused.     "  Affairs  are  in  a  bad  way  at  Ballamona — very." 

Gilcrist  made  no  response  whatever,  but  clasped  his  hands 
about  his  knee  and  looked  steadily  into  the  fire. 

"  We  are  neither  of  us  young  men  now,  but  if  you  should 
think  of — of — anything,  I  should  consider  it  wrong  to  stand 
— to  put  myself  in  your  way — to  keep  you  here,  that  is — to 
your  disadvantage,  you  know." 

3 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Thorkell  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his 
fingers  interlaced  behind  him. 

Gilcrist  rose  to  his  feet.  "Very  well/'  he  said  with  a 
strained  quietness,  and  then  turned  towards  the  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  dark  sea.  Only  the  sea's  voice  from  the 
shore  beyond  the  churchyard  broke  the  silence  in  that  little 
room. 

Thorkell  stood  a  moment,  leaning  on  the  mantelshelf,  and 
the  flickering  lights  of  the  fire  seemed  to  make  sinister  smiles 
on  his  face.     Then  he  went  out  without  a  word. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  Gilcrist  Mylrea  was  riding 
towards  Derby  Haven  with  a  pack  in  green  cloth  across  his 
saddle-bow.  He  took  passage  by  the  King  Orry,  an  old 
sea  tub  plying  once  a  week  to  Liverpool.  From  Liverpool 
he  went  on  to  Cambridge,  to  offer  himself  as  a  sizar  at  the 
University. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  any  one  that  Thorkell  Mylrea 
would  marry.  But  his  father  was  scarcely  cold  in  his  grave, 
the  old  sea  tub  that  took  his  brother  across  the  Channel  had 
hardly  grounded  at  Liverpool,  when  Thorkell  Mylrea  offered 
his  heart  and  wrinkled  hand  and  the  five  hundred  acres  of 
Ballamona  to  a  lady  twenty  years  of  age,  who  lived  at  a  dis- 
tance of  some  six  miles  from  his  estate.  It  would  be  more 
precise  to  say  that  the  liberal  tender  was  made  to  the  lady's 
father,  for  her  own  will  was  little  more  than  a  cypher  in  the 
bargaining.  She  was  a  girl  of  sweet  spirit,  very  tender  and 
submissive,  and  much  under  the  spell  of  religious  feeling. 
Her  mother  had  died  during  her  infancy,  and  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  household  that  was  without  other  children, 
in  a  gaunt  rectory  that  never  echoed  with  children's  voices. 
Her  father  was  Archdeacon  of  the  island.  Archdeacon  Teare ; 
her  own  name  was  Joance. 

If  half  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  turned  out  at  old 
Ewan's  funeral,  the  entire  population  of  four  parishes  made  a 
holiday  of  his  son's  wedding.  The  one  followed  hard  upon 
the  other,  and  thrift  was  not  absent  from  either.  Thorkell 
was  married  in  the  early  spring  at  the  Archdeacon's  church 
at  Andreas. 

It  would  be  rash  to  say  that  the  presence  of  the  great 
company  at  the  wedding  was  intended  as  a  tribute  to  the 
many  virtues  of  Thorkell  Mylrea.  Indeed,  it  was  as  well 
that  the  elderly  bridegroom  could  not  overhear  the  conver- 

4 


THE   DEATH   OF   OLD   EWAN 

sation  with  which  some  of  the  homely  folk  beguiled  the 
way. 

''  Aw,  the  murther  of  it,"  said  one  buirdly  Manxman,  "  five- 
and-forty  if  he's  a  day,  and  a  wizened  old  polecat  anyway." 

"  You'd  really  think  the  gel's  got  no  feelin's.  Aw,  shockin*, 
shockin'  extraordinary  ! " 

"  And  a  rael  good  gel  too,  they're  sayin*.  Amazin' ! 
Amazin*  ! " 

The  marriage  of  Thorkell  was  a  curious  ceremony.  First 
there  walked  abreast  the  fiddler  and  the  piper,  playing  vigor- 
ously the  *' Black  and  Grey;"  then  came  the  bridegroom's 
men  carrj'ing  osiers,  as  emblems  of  their  superiority  over  the 
bridesmaids,  who  followed  them.  Three  times  the  company 
passed  round  the  church  before  entering  it,  and  then  they 
trooped  up  towards  the  communion-rail. 

Thorkell  went  through  the  ceremony  with  the  air  of  a 
whipped  terrier.  On  the  outside  he  was  gay  in  frills  and 
cuffs,  and  his  thin  hair  was  brushed  crosswise  over  the  bald 
patch  on  his  crown.  He  wore  buckled  shoes  and  blue  laces 
to  his  breeches.  But  his  brave  exterior  lent  him  small  sup- 
port as  he  took  the  ungloved  hand  of  his  girlish  bride.  He 
gave  his  responses  in  a  voice  that  first  faltered,  and  then  sent 
out  a  quick,  harsh,  loud  pipe.  No  such  gaunt  and  grim 
shadow  of  a  joyful  bridegroom  ever  before  knelt  beside  a 
beautiful  bride,  and  while  the  Archdeacon  married  this 
spectre  of  a  happy  man  to  his  own  submissive  daughter,  the 
whispered  comments  of  the  throng  that  filled  nave  and  aisles 
and  gallery  sometimes  reached  his  own  ears. 

"  You  wouldn't  think  it,  now,  that  the  craythur's  sold  his 
own  gel,  and  him  preaching  there  about  the  covenant  and 
Isaac  and  Rebecca,  and  all  that ! " 

"  Hush,  man,  it's  Laban  and  Jacob  he's  meaning." 

When  the  ceremony  had  come  to  an  end,  and  the  bride- 
groom's eyes  were  no  longer  fixed  in  a  stony  stare  on  the 
words  of  the  Commandments  printed  in  black  and  white 
under  the  chancel  window,  the  scene  underwent  a  swift 
change.  In  one  minute  Thorkell  was  like  another  man.  All 
his  abject  bearing  fell  away.  When  the  party  was  clear  of 
the  churchyard,  four  of  the  groom's  men  started  for  the 
Rectory  at  a  race,  and  the  first  to  reach  it  won  a  flask  of 
brandy,  with  which  he  returned  at  high  speed  to  the  wedding 
company.      Then   Thorkell,  as   the   custom   was,   bade   his 

5 


THE  DEEMSTER 

friends  to  form  a  circle  where  they  stood  in  the  road,  while 
he  drank  of  the  brandy  and  handed  the  flask  to  his  wife. 

"  Custom  must  be  indulged  with  custom/'  said  he,  "  or 
custom  will  weep." 

After  that  the  company  moved  on  until  they  reached  the 
door  of  the  Archdeacon's  house,  where  the  bridecake  was 
broken  over  the  bride's  head,  and  then  thrown  to  be  scrambled 
for  by  the  noisy  throng  that  blew  neat's  horns  and  fired  guns 
and  sang  ditties  by  the  way. 

Thorkell,  with  the  chivalrous  bearing  of  an  old  courtier, 
delivered  up  his  wife  to  the  flock  of  ladies  who  were  ready 
to  pounce  upon  her  at  the  door  of  the  Rectory.  Then  he 
mingled  freely  with  the  people  and  chatted  and  bantered, 
and  made  quips  and  quibbles.  Finally,  he  invited  all  and 
sundry  to  partake  freely  of  the  oaten  cake  and  ale  that  he 
had  himself  brought  from  Ballamona  in  his  car  for  the  re- 
freshment of  his  own  tenants  there  present.  The  fare  was 
Lenten  fare  for  a  wedding-day,  and  some  of  the  straggle - 
headed  troop  grumbled,  and  some  sniffled,  and  some  scratched 
their  heads,  and  some  laughed  outright.  The  beer  and  bread 
were  left  almost  untouched. 

Thorkell  was  blind  to  the  discontent  of  his  guests,  but  the 
Archdeacon  perceived  it,  and  forthwith  called  such  of  the 
tumultuous  assemblage  as  came  from  a  distance  into  his 
barns.  There  the  creels  were  turned  bottom  up,  and  four 
close-jointed  gates  lifted  off"  their  hinges  were  laid  on  the 
top  for  tables.  Then  from  pans  and  boilers  that  simmered 
in  the  kitchen  a  great  feast  was  spread.  First  came  the 
broth,  well  loaded  with  barley  and  cabbage,  and  not  destitute 
of  the  flavour  of  numerous  sheep's  heads.  This  was  served 
in  wooden  piggins,  shells  being  used  as  spoons.  Then  suet 
pudding,  as  round  as  a  well-fed  salmon,  and  as  long  as  a 
30lb.  cod.  Last  of  all  a  fat  hog,  roasted  whole,  and  cut  with 
a  cleaver,  but  further  dissected  only  by  teeth  and  fingers,  for 
tlie  unfastidious  Manxman  cared  nothing  for  knife  and  fork. 

After  that  there  were  liquor  and  lusty  song.  And  all  the 
time  there  could  be  heard  over  the  boisterous  harmony  of 
the  feasters  within  the  bam  the  yet  noisier  racket  of  the 
people  without. 

By  this  time,  whatever  sentiment  of  doubtful  charity  had 
been  harboured  in  the  icy  breast  of  the  Manxman  had  been 
thawed  away  under  the  charitable  effects  of  good  cheer,  and 

6 


A   MAN   CHILD   IS   BORN 

Thorkell  Mylrea  and  Archdeacon  Teare  began  to  appear  in 
truly  Christian  character. 

"  It's  none  so  ould  he  is  yet,  at  all  at  all." 
"  Ould  ?     He  hasn't  the  hayseed  out  of  his  hair,  boy." 
"  An^  a  shocking  powerful  head-piece  at  him  for  all." 
There  were  rough  jokes  and  dubious  toasts,  and  Thorkell 
enjoyed  them  all.      There  was   dancing,  too,  and  fiddling, 
and  the  pipes  at  intervals,  and  all  went  merry  until  raid- 
night,  when  the  unharmonious  harmonies  of  fiddle  and  pipes 
and  unsteady  song  went   off  over  the  Curraghs   in  various 
directions. 

Next  morning  Thorkell  took  his  wife  home  to  Ballamona. 
They  drove  in  the  open  springless  car  in  which  he  had 
brought  down  the  oaten  cake  and  ale.  Thorkell  had  seen 
that  the  remains  of  these  good  viands  were  thriftily  gathered 
up.  He  took  them  back  home  with  him,  carefully  packed 
under  the  board  on  which  his  young  wife  sat. 


CHAPTER  n 

A    MAN     CHILD     IS     BORN 

Three  years  passed,  and  Thorkell's  fortunes  grew  apace.  He 
toiled  early  and  late.  Time  had  no  odd  days  or  holiday  in 
his  calendar.  Every  day  was  working  day  except  Sunday, 
and  then  Thorkell,  like  a  devout  Christian,  went  to  church. 
Thorkell  believed  that  he  was  a  devoutly  religious  man,  but 
rumour  whispered  that  he  was  better  able  to  make  his  words 
fly  up  than  to  prevent  his  thoughts  from  remaining  below. 

His  wife  did  not  seem  to  be  a  happy  woman.  During 
the  three  years  of  her  married  life  she  had  not  borne  her 
husband  children.  It  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  Thor- 
kell's sole  desire  in  marriage  had  been  a  child,  a  son,  to 
whom  he  could  leave  what  no  man  can  carry  away. 

One  Sunday  morning  as  Thorkell  and  his  wife  were  on 
their  way  to  church,  a  young  woman  of  about  twenty  passed 
them,  and  as  she  went  by  she  curtsied  low  to  the  lady.  The 
girl  had  a  comely  nut-brown  face  with  dark  wavy  clusters 
of  hair  tumbling  over  her  forehead  from  beneath  a  white 
sun-bonnet,  of  which  the  poke  had  been  dexterously  rolled 

7 


THE   DEEMSTER 

back.  It  was  summer,  and  her  light  blue  bodice  was  open, 
and  showed  a  white  under-bodice  and  a  full  neck.  Her 
sleeves  were  rolled  up  over  the  elbows,  and  her  dimpled 
arms  were  bare  and  brown.  There  was  a  look  of  coquetry  in 
her  hazel  eyes  as  they  shot  up  their  dark  lustre  uiy'er  her 
long  lashes,  and  then  dropped  as  quickly  to  her  feet.  She 
wore  buckle  shoes  with  the  open  clock  tops. 

Thorkell's  quick  eyes  glanced  over  her,  and  when  the  girl 
curtsied  to  his  wife  he  fell  back  the  few  paces  that  he  was  in 
front  of  her. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  he  asked. 

Thorkell's  wife  replied  that  the  girl  was  a  net-maker  from 
near  Peeltown. 

"  What's  her  name  ?  " 

Thorkell's  wife  answered  that  the  girl's  name  was  Mally 
Kerruish. 

''  Who  are  her  people  }     Has  she  any  ?  " 

Thorkell's  wife  explained  that  the  girl  had  a  mother  only, 
who  was  poor  and  worked  in  the  fields,  and  had  come  to 
Ballamona  for  help  during  the  last  hard  winter. 

"  Humph !  Doesn't  look  as  if  the  daughter  wanted  for 
much.  How  does  the  girl  come  by  her  fine  feathers  if  her 
mother  lives  on  charity  ?  " 

Thorkell's  wizened  face  was  twisted  into  grotesque  lines. 
His  wife's  face  saddened,  and  her  voice  dropped  as  she 
hinted  in  faltering  accents  that  "  scandal  did  say — say " 

"  Well,  woman,  what  does  scandal  say  ?  "  asked  Thorkell, 
and  his  voice  had  a  curious  lilt,  and  his  mouth  wore  a  strange 
smile. 

"  It  says — I'm  afraid,  Thorkell,  the  poor  girl  is  no  better 
than  she  ought  to  be." 

Thorkell  snorted,  and  then  laughed  in  his  throat  like  a 
frisky  gelding. 

"  I  thought  she  looked  like  a  lively  young  puffin,"  he  said, 
and  then  trotted  on  in  front,  his  head  rolling  between  his 
shoulders  and  his  eyes  down.  After  going  a  few  yards 
further  he  slackened  speed  again. 

"  Lives  near  Peeltown,  you  say — a  net-maker — Mally — is 
it  Mally  Kerruish.^" 

Thorkell's  wife  answered  with  a  nod  of  the  head,  and  then 
her  husband  faced  about,  and  troubled  her  with  no  further 
conversation  until  he  drew  up  at  the  church  door,  and  said, 

8 


A   MAN   CHILD   IS   BORN 

"Quick,  woman,  quick,  and  mind  you  shut  the  pew  door 
after  you." 

But  "  God  remembered  Rachel  and  hearkened  to  her," 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  wife  of  Thorkell  Mylrea 
began  to  show  a  cheerful  countenance.  Thorkell's  own 
elevation  of  spirits  was  yet  more  noticeable.  He  had  hereto- 
fore showed  no  discontent  with  the  old  homestead  that  had 
housed  his  people  for  six  generations,  but  he  now  began  to 
build  another  and  much  larger  house  on  the  rising  ground  at 
the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo.  His  habits  underwent  some  swift 
and  various  changes.  He  gave  away  no  grey  blankets  that 
winter,  the  itinerant  poor  who  were  "  on  the  houses  "  often 
went  empty  from  his  door,  and — most  appalling  change  of 
all — he  promptly  stopped  his  tithe.  When  the  parson's  cart 
drove  up  to  Ballamona,  Thorkell  turned  the  horse's  head, 
and  gave  the  flank  a  sharp  cut  with  his  whip.  The  parson 
came  in  white  wrath. 

"  Let  every  pig  dig  for  herself,"  said  Thorkell.  "  I'll  daub 
grease  on  the  rump  of  your  fat  pig  no  more."  ^ 

Thorkell's  new  homestead  rose  rapidly,  and  when  the 
walls  were  ready  for  the  roof,  the  masons  and  carpenters 
went  up  to  Ballamona  for  the  customary  feast  of  cowree  and 
jough  and  binjean. 

"  What !  Is  it  true,  then,  as  the  saying  is,"  Thorkell 
exclaimed  at  the  sight  of  them,  "  that  when  the  sport  is  the 
merriest  it  is  time  to  give  up  ?  " 

They  ate  no  cowree  at  Ballamona  that  night  and  they 
drank  no  jough. 

"  We've  been  going  to  the  goat's  house  for  wool,"  grunted 
one  of  them  as  they  trudged  home. 

"  Aw,  well,  man,  and  what  can  you  get  of  the  cat  but  his 
skin .'' "  growled  another. 

Next  day  they  put  on  the  first  timbers  of  the  roof,  and  the 
following  night  a  great  storm  swept  over  the  island,  and  the 
roof  timbers  were  torn  away,  not  a  spar  or  purlin  being  left 
in  its  place.  Thorkell  fumed  at  the  storm  and  swore  at  the 
men,  and  when  the  wind  subsided  he  had  the  work  done 
afresh.  The  old  homestead  of  Ballamona  was  thatched,  but 
the  new  one  must  be  slated,  and  slates  were  quarried  at  and 
carted  to  Slieu  Dhoo,  and  run  on  to  the  new  roof.  A  dead 
calm  had  prevailed  during  these  operations,  but  it  was  the 
calm  that  lies  in  the  heart  of  the  storm,  and  the  night  after 
2  9 


THE   DEEMSTER 

they  were  completed  the  other  edge  of  tlie  cyclone  passed 
over  the  island,  tearing  up  the  trees  by  their  roots^  and 
shaking  the  old  Ballamona  to  its  foundations.  Thorkell 
Mylrea  slept  not  a  wink,  but  tramped  up  and  down  his 
bedroom  the  long  night  through ;  and  next  morning,  at  day- 
break, he  drew  the  blind  of  his  window,  and  peered  through 
the  haze  of  the  dawn  to  where  his  new  house  stood  on  i\ie 
breast  of  Slieu  Dhoo.  He  could  just  descry  its  blue  walls — • 
it  was  roofless. 

The  people  began  to  mutter  beneath  their  breath. 

"Aw,  man,  it's  a  judgment,"  said  one. 

''He  has  been  middUn'  hard  on  the  widda  and  fatherless, 
and  it's  like  enough  that  there's  Them  aloft  that  knows  it." 

"  What's  that  they're  saying  }  "  said  one  old  crone,  "  what 
comes  with  the  wind  goes  with  the  water." 

"  Och,  I  knew  his  father — him  and  me  were  same  as 
brothers-^and  a  good  ould  man  for  all." 

"  Well,  and  many  a  good  cow  has  a  bad  calf,"  said  the  old 
woman. 

Thorkell  went  about  like  a  cloud  of  thunder,  and  when 
he  heard  that  the  accidents  to  his  new  homestead  were 
ascribed  to  supernatural  agencies  he  flashed  like  forked 
lightning. 

''Where  there  are  geese  there's  dirt,"  he  said,  "and where 
there  are  women  there's  talking.  Am  I  to  be  frightened  if 
an  old  woman  sneezes  ?  " 

But  before  Thorkell  set  to  work  again  he  paid  his  tithe. 
He  paid  it  with  a  rick  of  discoloured  oats  that  had  been  cut 
in  the  wet  and  threshed  before  it  was  dry.  Thorkell  had 
often  wondered  whether  his  cows  would  eat  it.  The  next 
Sunday  morning  the  parson  paused  before  his  sermon  to 
complain  that  certain  of  his  parishioners,  whom  he  would  not 
name  at  present,  appeared  to  think  that  what  was  too  bad  for 
the  pigs  was  good  enough  for  the  priests.  Let  the  Church 
of  God  have  no  more  of  their  pig-swill.  Thorkell  in  his  pew 
chuckled  audibly  and  muttered  something  about  paying  for 
a  dead  horse. 

It  was  spring  when  the  second  roof  was  blown  down,  and 
the  new  house  stood  roofless  until  early  summer.  Then 
Tliorkell  sent  four  lean  pigs  across  to  the  Rectory,  and  got 
liis  carpenters  together  and  set  them  to  work.  The  roofing 
proceeded  without  interruption. 

10 


A   MAN   CHILD   IS   BORN 

The  primrose  was  not  yet  gone,  the  swallow  had  not  yet 
come,  and  the  young  grass  under  the  feet  of  the  oxen  was 
still  small  and  sweet  when  Thorkell's  wife  took  to  her 
bed.  Then  all  Ballamona  was  astir.  Hommy-beg,  the  deaf 
gardener  of  Ballamona,  was  sent  in  the  hot  haste  of  his  best 
two  miles  an  hour  to  the  village,  commonly  known  as  the 
Street,  to  summon  the  midwife.  This  good  woman  was 
called  Kerry  Quayle ;  she  was  a  spinster  of  forty,  and  she 
was  all  but  blind. 

"I'm  thinking  the  woman-body  is  after  going  on  the 
straw,"  said  Hommy-beg,  when  he  reached  the  Street,  and 
this  was  the  sum  of  the  message  that  he  delivered. 

"Then  we'd  better  be  off,  as  the  saying  is,"  remarked 
Kerry,  who  never  accepted  responsibility  for  any  syllable 
she  ever  uttered. 

When  they  got  to  Ballamona,  Thorkell  Mylrea  bustled 
Hommy-beg  into  the  square  springless  car,  and  told  him  to 
drive  to  Andreas,  and  fetch  the  Archdeacon  without  an  hour's 
delay.  Hommy-beg  set  off  at  fine  paces  that  carried  him  to 
the  Archeaconry  a  matter  of  four  miles  an  hour. 

Thorkell  followed  Kerry  Quayle  to  the  room  above.  When 
they  stepped  into  the  bedroom  Thorkell  drew  the  midwife 
asicle  to  a  table  on  which  a  large  candle  stood  in  a  tall  brass 
candlestick  with  gruesome  gargoyles  carved  on  the  base  and 
upper  flange.  From  this  table  he  picked  up  a  small  Testa- 
ment bound  in  shiny  leather  with  silver  clasps. 

"  I'm  as  great  a  man  as  any  in  the  island,"  said  Thorkell, 
in  his  shrill  whisper,  "for  laughing  at  the  simpletons  that 
talk  about  witches  and  boaganes  and  the  like  of  that." 

"  So  you  are,  as  the  saying  is,"  said  Kerry. 

"  I'd  have  the  law  on  the  lot  of  them,  if  I  had  my  way/* 
said  Thorkell,  still  holding  the  book. 

"Aw,  and  shockin'  powerful  luck  it  would  be,  as  the  old 
body  said,  if  all  the  witches  and  boaganes  in  the  island  could 
be  run  into  the  sea,"  said  Kerry. 

"  Pshaw  !  I'm  talking  of  the  simpletons  that  believe  in 
them,"  said  Thorkell  snappishly.  "I'd  clap  them  all  in 
Castle  Rushen." 

"Aw,  yes,  and  clean  law  and  clean  justice,  too,  as  the 
Irishman  said." 

"  So  don't  think  I  want  the  midwife  to  take  her  oath  Id 
my  house,"  said  Thorkell. 

11 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  Och,  no,  of  coorse  not.  You  wouldn't  bemean  yourself, 
as  they  say." 

"  But,  then^  you  know  what  the  saying  is,  Kerry,  '  Custom 
must  be  indulged  with  custom,  or  custom  will  weep,' "  and, 
saying  this,  Thorkell's  voice  took  a  most  insinuating  tone. 

"Aw,  now,  and  I'm  as  good  as  here  and  there  one  at 
standing  up  for  custom,  as  the  saying  is,"  said  the  midwife. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  Kerry  Quayle  took  there  and 
then  a  solemn  oath  not  to  use  sorcery  or  incantation  of  any 
kind  in  the  time  of  travail,  not  to  change  the  infant  at  the 
hour  of  its  birth,  not  to  leave  it  in  the  room  for  a  week  after- 
wards Avithout  spreading  the  tongs  over  its  crib,  and  much 
else  of  the  like  solemn  purport. 

The  dusk  deepened,  and  the  Archdeacon  had  not  yet 
arrived.  Night  came  on,  and  the  room  was  dark,  but  Thor- 
kell  would  not  allow  a  lamp  to  be  brought  in,  or  a  fire  to  be 
lighted.  Some  time  later,  say  six  hours  after  Hommy-beg 
had  set  out  on  his  six-mile  journey,  a  lumbrous,  jolting  sound 
of  heavy  wheels  came  from  the  road  below  the  Curragh,  and 
soon  afterwards  the  Archdeacon  entered  the  room. 

''  So  dark,"  he  said,  on  stumbling  across  the  threshold. 

"  Ah  !  Archdeacon,"  said  Thorkell,  with  the  unaccustomed 
greeting  of  an  outstretched  hand,  "the  Church  shall  bring 
light  to  the  chamber  here,"  and  Thorkell  handed  the  tinder- 
box  to  the  Archdeacon  and  led  him  to  the  side  of  the  table 
on  which  the  candle  stood. 

In  an  instant  the  Archdeacon,  laughing  a  little  or  pro- 
testing meekly  against  his  clerical  honours,  was  striking  the 
flint,  when  Thorkell  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"^Wait  one  moment;  of  course  you  know  how  I  despise 
superstition  }  " 

"  Ah  !  of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  Archdeacon. 

"  But,  then,  you  know  the  old  saying.  Archdeacon,  '  Cus- 
tom must  be  indulged  with  custom,'  you  know  it  .-^ "  And 
Thorkell's  face  shut  up  like  a  nutcracker. 

"  So  I  must  bless  the  candle.  Eh,  is  that  it } '  said  the 
Archdeacon,  with  a  low  gurgle,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
gabbUng  in  a  quick  undertone  through  certain  words  that 
seemed  to  be  all  one  word : — 'O-Lord-Jesus-Christ-bless-Thou- 
this-creature  -  of-  a  -  waxen  -  taper-that-on-what-place-soe  ver-i  t- 
be-lighted-or-set-the-devil-may-flee-from-that-habitation-and- 
no-more-disquiet-them-that-serve — Thee  ' " 

12 


A  MAN   CHILD   IS   BORN 

After  the  penultimate  word  there  was  a  short  pause,  and 
at  the  last  word  there  was  the  sharp  crack  of  the  flint,  and  in 
an  instant  the  candle  was  lighted. 

Then  the  Archdeacon  turned  towards  the  bed  and  ex- 
changed some  words  with  his  daughter.  The  bed  was  a 
mahogany  four-post  one,  with  legs  like  rocks,  a  hood  like 
a  pulpit  sounding-board,  and  tapestry  curtains  like  a  muddy 
avalanche.  The  Archdeacon — he  was  a  small  man,  with  a 
face  like  a  russet  apple — leaned  against  one  of  the  bed-posts, 
and  said,  in  a  tone  of  banter — 

"  Why,  Thorkell,  and  if  you're  for  indulging  custom,  how 
comes  it  that  you  have  not  hung  up  your  hat  ?  " 

"  My  hat — my  hat !  "  said  Thorkell,  in  perplexity. 

"  Aw,  now,"  said  the  midwife,  "  the  master's  as  great  a  man 
as  any  in  the  island  at  laughing  at  the  men  craythurs  that 
hang  up  their  hats  over  the  straw  to  fright  the  boaganes,  as 
the  old  M  Oman  said." 

Thorkell's  laughter  instantly  burst  forth  to  justify  the 
midwife's  statement. 

'^  Ha,  ha  !  Hang  up  my  hat  !  Well  now,  well  now  ! 
Drives  away  the  black  spirits  from  the  birth-bed — isn't  that 
wliat  the  dunces  say  }  It's  twenty  years  since  I  saw  the  like  of 
it  done,  and  I'd  forgotten  the  old  custom.  Must  look  funny, 
very,  the  good  man's  hat  perched  up  on  the  bed-post  }  What 
dy'e  say.  Archdeacon,  shall  we  have  it  up  }  Just  for  the  laugh, 
you  know,  ha,  ha  !  " 

In  another  moment  Thorkell  was  gone  from  the  room,  and 
his  titter  could  be  heard  from  the  stairs  ;  it  ebbed  away  and 
presently  flowed  back  again,  and  Thorkell  was  once  more  by 
the  bedside,  laughing  immoderately,  and  perching  his  angular 
soft  hat  on  the  topmost  knob  of  one  of  the  posts  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

Then  Thorkell  and  the  Archdeacon  went  down  to  the 
little  room  that  had  once  been  Gilcrist's  room,  looking  over 
the  Curragh  to  the  sea. 

Before  daybreak  next  morning  a  man  child  was  born  to 
Thorkell  Mylrea,  and  an  heir  to  the  five  hundred  acres  of 
Ballamona. 


l.S 


THE   DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  III 

THE   CHRISTENING    OF    YOUNG    EWAN 

In  the  dead  waste  of  that  night  the  old  walls  of  Ballamona 
echoed  to  the  noise  of  hurrying  feet.  Thorkell  himself  ran 
like  a  squirrel  hither  and  thither,  breaking  out  now  and 
again  into  shrill  peals  of  hysterical  laughter  ;  while  the  women 
took  the  kettle  to  the  room  above,  and  employed  themselves 
there  in  sundry  mysterious  ordinances  on  which  no  male 
busybody  might  intrude.  Thorkell  dived  down  into  the 
kitchen,  and  rooted  about  in  the  meal  casks  for  the  oaten 
cake,  and  into  the  larder  for  the  cheese,  and  into  the  cup- 
board for  the  bread-basket  known  as  the  ''peck." 

Hommy-beg,  who  had  not  been  permitted  to  go  home  that 
night,  had  coiled  himself  in  the  settle  drawn  up  before  the 
kitchen-fire,  and  was  now  snoring  lustily.  Thorkell  roused 
him,  and  set  him  to  break  the  oatcake  and  cheese  into  small 
pieces  into  the  peck,  and,  when  this  was  done,  to  scatter  it 
broadcast  on  the  staircase  and  landing,  and  on  the  garden- 
path  immediately  in  front  of  the  house,  while  he  himself 
carried  a  similar  peck,  piled  up  like  a  pyramid  with  similar 
pieces  of  oatcake  and  cheese,  to  the  room  whence  there 
issued  at  intervals  a  thin,  small  voice,  that  was  the  sweetest 
music  that  had  ever  yet  fallen  on  Thorkell's  ear. 

What  high  commotion  did  the  next  day  witness  !  For  the 
first  time  since  that  lurid  day  when  old  Ewan  Mylrea  was  laid 
under  the  elder  tree  in  the  churchyard  by  the  sea,  Ballamona 
kept  open  house.  The  itinerant  poor,  who  made  the  circuit 
of  the  houses,  came  again,  and  lifted  the  latch  without 
knocking,  and  sat  at  the  fire  without  being  asked,  and  ate 
of  the  oatcake  and  the  cheese.  And  upstairs,  where  a  meek 
white  face  looked  out  with  an  unfamiliar  smile  from  behind 
sheets  that  were  hardly  more  white,  the  robustious  states- 
people  from  twenty  miles  around  sat  down  in  their  odorous 
atmosphere  of  rude  health  and  high  spirits,  and  noise  and 
laughter,  to  drink  their  glass  of  new  brewed  jough,  and  to 
spread  on  their  oaten  bread  a  thick  crust  of  the  rum-butter 
that  stood  in  the  great  blue  china  bowl  on  the  little  table  near 
the  bed-head.     And  Thorkell — how  nimbly  he  hopped  about, 

14 


THE   CHRISTENING   OF   YOUNG  EWAN 

and  encouraged  his  visitors  to  drink,  and  rallied  them  if  they 
ceased  to  eat ! 

"  Come,  man,  come,"  he  said  a  score  of  times,  "  shameful 
leaving  is  worse  than  shameful  eating — eat,  drink  ! " 

And  they  ate,  and  they  drank,  and  they  laughed,  and  they 
sang,  till  the  bedroom  reeked  with  the  fumes  of  a  pot-house, 
and  the  confusion  of  tongues  therein  was  worse  than  at  the 
foot  of  Babel. 

Throughout  three  long  jovial  weeks  the  visitors  came  and 
went,  and  every  day  the  "  blithe  bread "  was  piled  in  the 
peck  for  the  poor  of  the  eartli,  and  scattered  on  the  paths 
for  the  good  spirits  of  the  air.  And  when  people  jested 
upon  this,  and  said  that  not  since  the  old  days  of  their 
grandfathers  had  the  boaganes  and  the  fairies  been  so  civilly 
treated,  Thorkell  laughed  noisily,  and  said  what  great  fun  it 
was  that  they  should  think  he  was  superstitious,  and  that 
custom  must  be  indulged  with  custom,  or  custom  would  weep ! 

Then  came  the  christening,  and  to  this  ceremony  the 
whole  country  round  was  invited.  Thorkell  was  now  a  man 
of  consequence,  and  the  neighbours  high  and  low  trooped 
in  with  presents  for  the  young  Christian. 

Kerry,  the  midwife,  who  was  nurse  as  well,  carried  the 
child  to  church,  and  the  tiny  red  burden  lay  cooing  softly  at 
her  breast  in  a  very  hillock  of  White  swaddlings.  Thorkell 
walked  behind,  his  little  eyes  twinkling  under  his  bushy 
eyebrows ;  and  on  his  arm  his  wife  leaned  heavily  after  every 
feeble  step,  her  white  waxwork  face  bright  with  the  smile  of 
first  motherhood. 

The  Archdeacon  met  the  company  at  the  west  porch,  and 
they  gathered  for  the  baptism  about  the  font  in  the  aisle  : 
half-blind  Kerry  with  the  infant,  Thorkell  and  his  young 
wife,  the  two  godfathers,  the  Vicar-General  and  the  Water 
Bailiff  of  Peeltown,  and  the  godmother,  the  Water  Bailiff's 
wife,  and  behind  this  circle  a  mixed  throng  of  many  sorts. 
After  the  gospel  and  the  prayers,  the  Archdeacon,  in  his 
white  surplice,  took  the  infant  into  his  hands  and  called  on 
the  godparents  to  name  the  child,  and  they  answered  Ewan. 
Then  as  the  drops  fell  over  the  wee  blinking  eyes,  and  all 
voices  were  hushed  in  silence  and  awe,  there  came  to  the 
open  porch  and  looked  into  the  dusky  church  a  little  fleecy 
lamb,  all  soft  and  white  and  beautiful.  It  lifted  its  innocent 
and  dazed  face  where  it  stood  in  the  morning  sunshine,  on 

15 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  grass  of  the  graves,  and  bleated  and  bleated,  as  if  it  had 
strayed  from  its  mother  and  was  lost. 

The  Archdeacon  paused  with  his  drooping  finger  half 
raised  over  the  other  innocent  face  at  his  breast,  Thorkell's 
features  twitched,  and  the  tears  ran  down  the  white  cheekiJ 
of  his  wife. 

In  an  instant  the  baby-lamb  had  hobbled  away,  and  before 
the  Archdeacon  had  restored  the  child  to  the  arms  of  blind 
Kerry,  or  mumbled  the  last  of  the  prayers,  there  came  the 
hum  of  many  voices  from  the  distance.  The  noise  came 
rapidly  nearer,  and  as  it  approached  it  broke  into  a  tumult 
of  men's  deep  shouts  and  women's  shrill  cries. 

The  iron  hasp  of  the  lych-gate  to  the  churchyard  was  heard 
to  chink,  and  at  the  same  moment  there  was  the  sound  of 
hurrying  footsteps  on  the  paved  way.  The  company  that 
had  gathered  about  the  font  broke  up  abruptly,  and  made 
for  the  porch  with  looks  of  inquiry  and  amazement.  There, 
at  the  head  of  a  mixed  throng  of  the  riff-raff  of  the  parish, 
bareheaded  men,  women  with  bold  faces,  and  children  with 
naked  feet,  a  man  held  a  young  woman  by  the  arm  and 
pulled  her  towards  the  church.  He  was  a  stalwart  fellow, 
stern  of  feature,  iron  grey,  and  he  gripped  the  girl's  bare 
brown  arm  like  a  vice. 

"  Make  way  there  !  Come,  mistress,  and  no  struggling," 
he  shouted,  and  he  tugged  the  girl  after  him,  antl  then 
pushed  her  before  him. 

She  was  young;  twenty  at  most.  Her  comely  face  was 
drawn  hard  with  lines  of  pain ;  her  hazel  eyes  flashed  with 
wrath ;  and  where  her  white  sun-bonnet  had  fallen  back 
from  her  head  on  to  her  shoulders,  the  knots  of  lier  dark 
hair,  draggled  and  tangled  in  the  scuffle,  tumbled  in  masses 
over  her  neck  and  cheeks. 

It  was  Mally  Kerruish,  and  the  man  who  held  her  and 
forced  her  along  was  the  parish  sumner,  the  church  constable. 

"  Make  way,  I  tell  you ! "  shouted  the  sumner  to  the 
throng  that  crowded  upon  him,  and  into  the  porch,  and 
through  the  company  that  had  come  for  the  christening. 
When  the  Archdeacon  stepped  down  from  the  side  of  the 
font,  the  sumner  with  his  prisoner  drew  up  on  the  instant, 
and  the  noisy  crew  stood  and  was  silent. 

"  I  have  brought  her  for  her  oath,  your  reverence,"  said 
the  sumner,  dropping  his  voice  and  his  head  together. 

16 


THE   CHRISTENING   OF   YOUNG  EWAN 

"  Who  accuses  her  ?  "  the  Archdeacon  asked. 

''  Her  old  mother/'  said  the  sumner ;  "here  she  is." 

From  the  middle  of  the  throng  behind  him  the  sumner 
drew  out  an  elderly  woman  with  a  hard  and  wizened  face. 
Her  head  was  bare,  her  eyes  were  quick  and  restless,  her 
lips  firm  and  long,  her  chin  was  broad  and  heavy.  The 
woman  elbowed  her  way  forward  ;  but  when  she  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  Archdeacon,  and  he  asked  her  if  she 
charged  her  daughter,  she  looked  around  before  answering, 
and  seeing  her  girl  Mally  standing  there  with  her  white  face, 
under  the  fire  of  fifty  pairs  of  eyes,  all  her  resolution  seemed 
to  leave  her. 

"  It  isn't  natheral,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  a  mother  speaking 
up  agen  her  child,"  and  with  that  her  hard  mouth  softened, 
her  quick  eyes  reddened  and  filled,  and  her  hands  went  up 
to  her  face.  "But  nature  goes  down  with  a  flood  when 
you're  looking  to  have  another  belly  to  fill,  and  not  a  shilling 
at  you  this  fortnight." 

The  girl  stood  without  a  word,  and  not  one  streak  of 
colour  came  to  her  white  cheeks  as  her  mother  spoke. 

"  She  denied  it  and  denied  it,  and  said  no  and  no ;  but 
leave  it  to  a  mother  to  know  what  way  her  girl's  going." 

There  was  a  low  murmur  among  the  people  at  the  back 
and  some  whispering.  The  girl's  keen  ear  caught  it,  and 
she  turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder  with  a  defiant  glance. 

"Who  is  the  man.^*"  said  the  Archdeacon,  recalling  her 
with  a  touch  of  his  finger  on  her  arm. 

She  did  not  answer  at  first,  and  he  repeated  the  question 

"  Who  is  the  guilty  man  }  "  he  said  in  a  voice  more  sterr. 

"  It's  not  true.  Let  me  go,"  said  the  girl  in  a  quick 
undertone. 

"  Who  is  the  partner  of  your  sin  }  " 

"  It's  not  true,  I  say.  Let  me  go,  will  you  .^  "  and  the  girl 
struggled  feebly  in  the  sumner's  grip. 

"  Bring  her  to  the  altar,"  said  the  Archdeacon.  He  faced 
About  and  walked  towards  the  communion  and  entered  it. 
The  company  followed  him  and  drew  up  outside  the  com- 
munion-rail. He  took  a  Testament  from  the  reading-desk 
and  stepped  towards  the  girl.     There  was  a  dead  hush. 

"  The  Church  provides  a  remedy  for  slander,"  he  said  in  a 
cold,  clear  tone.  "  If  you  are  not  guilty,  swear  that  you  are 
innocent,  and  he  who  tampers  with  your  good  name  may 

17 


THE   DEEMSTER 

beware."  With  that  the  Archdeacon  held  the  Testament 
towards  the  girl.  She  made  no  show  of  taking  it.  He 
thrust  it  into  her  hand.  At  tlie  touch  of  the  book  she  gave 
a  faint  cry  and  stepped  a  pace  backward,,  the  Testament  fall- 
ing open  on  to  the  form  beneath. 

Then  the  murmur  of  the  bystanders  rose  again.  The  girl 
heard  it  once  more,  and  dropped  on  her  knees  and  covered 
her  face,  and  cried  in  a  tremulous  voice  that  echoed  over 
the  church,  "  Let  me  go,  let  me  go." 

The  company  that  came  for  the  christening  had  walked 
up  the  aisle.  Blinking  Kerry  stood  apart,  husliing  tlie  infant 
in  her  arms ;  it  made  a  fretful  whimper.  Thorkell  stood 
behind,  pawing  the  paved  path  with  a  restless  foot.  His 
wife  had  made  her  way  to  the  girl's  side,  her  eyes  over- 
flowing with  compassion. 

"Take  her  to  prison  at  the  Peel,"  said  the  Archdeacon, 
''and  keep  her  there  until  she  confesses  the  name  of  her 
paramour."  At  that  Thorkell's  wife  dropped  to  her  knees 
beside  the  kneeling  girl,  and  putting  one  arm  about  her 
neck  raised  the  other  against  the  sumner,  and  cried,  "  No, 
no,  no  ;  she  will  confess." 

There  was  a  pause  and  a  long  hush.  Mally  let  her  hands 
fall  from  her  face,  and  turned  her  eyes  full  on  the  eyes  of 
the  young  mother  at  her  side.  In  dead  silence  the  two  rose 
to  their  feet  together. 

"  Confess  his  name ;  whoever  he  is,  he  does  not  deserve 
that  you  should  suffer  for  him  as  well,"  said  the  wife  ot 
Thorkell  Mylrea,  and  as  she  spoke  she  touched  the  girl's 
white  forehead  with  her  pale  lips. 

"  Do  you  ask  that  }  "  said  Mally  with  a  strange  quietness. 

For  one  swift  instant  the  eyes  of  these  women  seemed  to 
see  into  each  other's  heart.  The  face  of  Thorkell's  wife 
became  very  pale  ;  she  grew  faint,  and  clutched  the  com- 
munion-rail as  she  staggered  back. 

At  the  next  instant  Mally  Kerruish  was  being  hurried  by 
the  sumner  down  the  aisle ;  the  noisy  concourse  that  had 
come  with  them  went  away  with  them,  and  in  a  moment 
more  the  old  church  was  empty  save  for  the  company  that 
had  gathered  about  the  font. 

There  was  a  great  feast  at  Ballamona  that  day.  The 
new  house  was  finished,  and  the  young  Christian,  Ewan 
Mylrea,  of  Ballamona,  was  the  first  to  enter  it ;  for  was  it 

18 


THE   CHRISTENING   OF  YOUNG  EWAN 

not  to  be  his  house,  and  his  children's,  and  his  children's 
children's  ? 

Thorkell's  wife  did  not  join  the  revels,  but  in  her  new 
home  she  went  back  to  her  bed.  The  fatigue  and  excite- 
ment of  the  day  had  been  too  much  for  her.  Thorkell  him- 
self sat  in  his  place  and  laughed  noisily  and  drank  much. 
Towards  sunset  the  sumner  came  to  say  that  the  girl  who 
had  been  taken  to  prison  at  the  Peel  had  confessed,  and 
was  now  at  large.  The  Archdeacon  got  up  and  went  out  of 
the  room.  Thorkell  called  lustily  on  his  guests  to  drink  again, 
and  one  stupefied  old  crony  clambered  to  his  feet  and  de- 
manded silence  for  a  toast. 

"  To  the  father  of  the  girl's  by-blow,"  he  shouted,  when  the 
glasses  were  charged ;  and  then  the  company  laughed  till 
the  roof  rang,  and  above  all  was  the  shrill  laugh  of  Thorkell 
Mylrea.  Presently  the  door  opened  again,  and  the  Arch- 
deacon, with  a  long  grave  face,  stood  on  the  threshold  and 
beckoned  to  Thorkell  at  the  head  of  his  table.  Thorkell 
went  out  with  him,  and  when  they  returned  together  a  little 
later,  and  the  master  of  Ballamona  resumed  his  seat,  he 
laughed  yet  more  noisily  than  before,  and  drank  yet  more 
liquor. 

On  the  outside  of  Ballamona  that  night  an  old  woman, 
hooded  and  caped,  knocked  at  the  door.  The  loud  laughter 
and  the  ranting  songs  from  within  came  out  to  her  where 
she  stood  in  the  darkness,  under  the  silent  stars.  When  the 
door  was  opened  by  Hommy-beg  the  woman  asked  for  Mylrea 
Ballamona.  Hommy-beg  repulsed  her,  and  would  have  shut 
the  door  in  her  face.  She  called  again,  and  again,  and  yet 
again,  and  at  last,  by  reason  of  her  importunity,  Hommy-beg 
went  in  and  told  Thorkell,  who  got  up  and  followed  him  out. 
The  Archdeacon  heard  the  message,  and  left  the  room  at 
the  same  moment. 

Outside  on  the  gravel  path,  the  old  woman  stood  with  the 
light  of  the  lamp  that  burned  in  the  hall  on  her  wizened 
face.      It  was  Mrs.  Kerruish,  the  mother  of  Mally. 

"  It's  fine  times  you're  having  of  it.  Master  Mylrea,"  she 
said,  "  and  you,  too,  your  reverence ;  but  what  about  me  and 
my  poor  girl  ?  " 

"  It  was  yourself  that  did  it,  woman,"  said  Thorkell ;  and 
he  tried  to  laugh,  but  under  the  stars  his  laugh  fell  short. 

"  Me,  you  say  ?     Me,  was  it  for  all }     May  the  good  God 

IP 


THE   DEEMSTER 

judge  between  us,  Master  Mylrea.      D'ye  know  what  it  is 
that's  happened  ?     My  poor  girl's  gone." 

"  Gone  !  " 

"  Eh,  gone — gone  off — gone  to  hide  her  shameful  face ; 
God  help  her." 

"  Better  luck,"  said  Thorkell,  and  a  short  gurgle  rattled  in 
his  dry  throat. 

"  Luck,  you  call  it  ?     Luck  !     Take  care,  Ballaraona." 

The  Archdeacon  interposed.  "  Come,  no  threats,  my  good 
woman,"  he  said,  and  waved  his  hand  in  protestation.  "  The 
Church  has  done  you  justice  in  this  matter." 

"Threats,  your  reverence.'^  Justice.'*  Is  it  justice  to 
punish  the  woman  and  let  the  man  go  free  }  What  !  the 
woman  to  stand  penance  six  Sabbaths  by  the  church-door  of 
six  parishes,  and  the  man  to  pay  his  dirty  money,  six  pounds 
to  you  and  three  to  me,  and  then  no  mortal  to  name  his 
name  ! " 

The  old  woman  rummaged  in  the  pocket  at  her  side  and 
pulled  out  a  few  coins.  "  Here,  take  them  back ;  I'm  no 
Judas  to  buy  my  own  girl.      Here,  I  say,  take  them  ! " 

Thorkell  had  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  was 
making  a  great  show  of  laughing  boisterously. 

The  old  woman  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  arid  her  pale 
face  turned  livid.  Then  by  a  sudden  impulse  she  lifted  her 
eyes  and  her  two  trembling  arms.  "  God  in  Heaven,"  she 
said  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  let  Thy  wrath  rest  on  this  man's 
head ;  make  this  house  that  he  has  built  for  himself  and  for 
his  children  a  curse  to  him  and  them  and  theirs  ;  bring  it 
to  pass  that  no  birth  come  to  it  but  death  come  with  it, 
and  so  on  and  on  until  Thou  hast  done  justice  between  him 
and  me." 

Thorkell's  laughter  stopped  suddenly.  As  the  woman 
spoke  his  face  quivered,  and  his  knees  shook  perceptibly 
under  him.  Then  he  took  her  by  the  arms  and  clutched  her 
convulsively.  "  Woman,  woman,  what  are  you  saying  }  "  he 
cried  in  his  shrill  treble.  She  disengaged  herself  and  went 
away  into  the  night. 

For  a  moment  Thorkell  tramped  the  hall  with  nervous 
footsteps.  The  Archdeacon  stood  speechless.  Then  the 
sound  of  laughter  and  of  song  came  from  the  room  they 
had  left,  and  Thorkell  flung  in  on  the  merry-makers. 

"  Go  home,   go  home,  every  man   of  you !      Away   with 

20 


THE   DEEMSTER   OF   MAN 

vou  !  "  he  shouted  hysterically,  and  then  dropped  like  a  log 
into  a  chair. 

One  by  one,  with  many  wise  shakes  of  many  sapient  heads, 
the  tipsy  revellers  broke  up  and  went  off,  leaving  the  master 
of  Ballamona  alone  in  that  chamber,  dense  with  dead  smoke 
and  noisome  with  the  fumes  of  liquor. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE     DEEMSTER     OF    MAN 

Twenty  times  that  night  Thorkell  devised  expedients  to 
break  the  web  of  fate.  At  first  his  thoughts  were  of  re- 
vengeful defiance.  By  fair  means  or  foul  the  woman  Kerruish 
should  suffer.  She  should  be  turned  out  of  house  and  home. 
She  should  tramp  the  roads  as  a  mendicant.  He  would 
put  his  foot  on  her  neck.  Then  they  would  see  what  her 
uncanny  threats  had  come  to. 

He  tried  this  unction  for  his  affrighted  spirit,  and  put  it 
aside  as  useless.  No,  no ;  he  would  conciliate  the  woman. 
He  would  settle  an  annuity  of  five  pounds  a  year  upon  her ; 
he  would  give  her  the  snug  gate  cottage  of  old  Ballamona  to 
live  in  ;  his  wife  should  send  her  warm  blankets  in  winter, 
and  sometimes  a  pound  of  tea,  such  as  old  folks  love.  Then 
must  her  imprecation  fall  impotent,  and  his  own  fate  be 
undisturbed. 

Thorkell's  bedroom  in  his  new  house  on  Slieu  Dhoo  looked 
over  the  Curraghs  to  the  sea.  As  the  day  dawned  he  opened 
the  window,  and  thrust  out  his  head  to  drink  of  the  cool 
morning  air.  The  sun  was  rising  over  the  land  behind,  a 
strong  breeze  was  sweeping  over  the  marshes  from  the  shore, 
and  the  white  curves  of  the  breakers  to  the  west  reflected  here 
and  there  the  glow  of  the  eastern  sky.  With  the  salt  breath 
of  the  sea  in  his  nostrils,  it  seemed  to  Thorkell  a  pitiful 
tiling  that  a  man  should  be  a  slave  to  a  mere  idea ;  a  thing 
for  shame  and  humiliation  that  the  sneezing  of  an  old 
woman  should  disturb  the  peace  of  a  strong  man.  Super- 
stition was  the  bugbear  of  the  Manxman,  but  it  would  die 
of  shame  at  its  sheer  absurdity,  only  that  it  was  pampered 
by  the  law.     Toleration  for  superstition  !     Every  man  who 

£1 


THE   DEEMSTER 

betrayed  faith  in  omens  or  portents,  or  charms  or  spells,  or 
the  power  of  the  evil  eye,  should  be  instantly  clapped  in  the 
Castle.     It  was  but  right  that  a  rabid  dog  should  be  muzzled. 

Thorkell  shut  the  window,  closed  the  shutters,  threw  off 
his  clothes,  and  went  back  to  bed.  In  the  silence  and  the 
darkness,  his  thoughts  took  yet  another  turn.  What  mad- 
ness it  was,  what  pertness  and  unbelief,  to  reject  that  faith 
in  which  the  best  and  wisest  of  all  ages  had  lived  and  died  ! 
Had  not  omens  and  portents,  and  charms  and  spells,  and 
the  evil  eye  been  believed  in  in  all  ages  ?  What  midget  of 
modern  days  should  now  arise  with  a  superior  smile  and  say, 
*'  Behold,  this  is  folly  :  Saul  of  Israel  and  Saul  of  Tarsus,  and 
Samuel  and  Solomon  rose  up  and  lay  down  in  folly." 

Thorkell  leapt  out  of  bed,  sweating  from  every  pore.  The 
old  woman,  Kerruish,  should  be  pensioned ;  she  should  live 
in  the  cosy  cottage  at  the  gates  of  Ballamona ;  she  should 
have  blankets  and  tea  and  many  a  snug  comfort ;  her  daughter 
should  be  brought  back  and  married — ^yes,  married — to  some 
honest  fellow. 

The  lark  was  loud  in  the  sky,  the  rooks  were  stirring  in 
the  lofty  ash,  the  swallows  pecking  at  the  lattice,  when  sleep 
came  at  length  to  Thorkell's  blood-shot  eyes,  and  he  stretched 
himself  in  a  short  and  fitful  slumber.  He  awoke  with  a  start. 
The  lusty  rap  of  Hommy-beg  was  at  the  door  of  his  room. 
There  was  no  itinerant  postman,  and  it  was  one  of  Hommy- 
beg's  daily  duties  to  go  to  the  post-office.  He  had  been 
there  this  morning,  and  was  now  returned  with  a  letter  for 
his  master. 

Thorkell  took  the  letter  with  nervous  fingers.  He  had  re- 
cognised the  seal — it  was  the  seal  of  the  insular  Government. 
The  letter  came  from  Castle  Rushen.  He  broke  the  seal 
and  read : — 

"  Castle  Rushen,  June  3. 

''Sir, — I  am  instructed  by  his  Excellency  to  beg  you  to 
come  to  Castletown  without  delay,  and  to  report  your  arrival 
at  the  Castle  to  Madam  Churchill,  who  will  see  you  on  behalf 
of  the  Duchess. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c." 

The  letter  was  signed  by  the  Secretary  to  the  Governor. 
What  did  it  mean  ?     Thorkell  could  make  nothing  of  it  but 
that  in  some  way  it  boded  ill.     In  a  bewildered  state  of  semi- 

22 


THE   DEEMSTER   OF   MAN 

consciousness  he  ordered  that  a  horse  should  be  got  ready 
and  brought  round  to  tlie  front.  Half  an  hour  later  he  had 
risen  from  an  untouched  breakfast  and  was  seated  in  the 
saddle. 

He  rode  past  Tynwald  Hill  and  through  Foxdale  to  the 
south.  Twenty  times  he  drew  up  and  half  reined  his  horse 
in  another  direction.  But  he  went  on  again.  He  could  turn 
about  at  any  time.  He  never  turned  about.  At  two  o'clock 
that  day  he  stood  before  the  low  gate  of  the  Castle  and 
pulled  at  the  great  clanging  bell. 

He  seemed  to  be  expected,  and  was  immediately  led  to  a 
chamber  on  the  north  of  the  courtyard.  The  room  was  small 
and  low ;  it  was  dimly  lighted  by  two  lancet  windows  set 
deep  into  walls  that  seemed  to  be  three  yards  thick.  The 
floor  was  covered  with  a  rush  matting ;  a  harp  stood  near  the 
fireplace.  A  lady  rose  as  Thorkell  entered.  She  was  elderly, 
but  her  dress  was  youthful.  Her  waist  was  short ;  her  em- 
broidered skirt  was  very  long ;  she  wore  spangled  shoes,  and 
her  hair  was  done  into  a  knot  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

Thorkell  stood  before  her  with  the  mien  of  a  culprit.  She 
smiled  and  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and  sat  herself. 

"  You  have  heard  of  the  death  of  one  of  our  two  Deemsters?" 
she  asked. 

Thorkell's  face  whitened,  and  he  bowed  his  head. 

"  A  successor  must  soon  be  appointed,  and  the  Deemster 
is  always  a  Manxman;  he  must  know  the  language  of  the 
common  people." 

Thorkell's  face  wore  a  bewildered  expression.  The  lady's 
manner  was  very  suave. 

"  The  appointment  is  the  gift  of  the  Lord  of  the  island, 
and  the  Countess  is  asked  to  suggest  a  name." 

Thorkell's  face  lightened.  He  had  regained  all  his  com- 
posure. 

"The  Countess  has  heard  a  good  account  of  you,  Mr. 
Mylrea.  She  is  told  that  by  your  great  industry  and — wisdom 
—you  have  raised  yourself  in  life — become  rich,  in  fact." 

The  lady's  voice  dropped  to  a  tone  of  most  insinuating 
suavity.     Thorkell  stammered  some  commonplace. 

"Hush,  Mr.  Mylrea,  you  shall  not  depreciate  yourself. 
The  Countess  has  heard  that  you  are  a  man  of  enterprise — 
one  who  does  not  begrudge  the  penny  that  makes  the 
pound." 

23 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Thorkell  saw  it  all.  He  was  to  be  made  Deemster,  but  he 
was  to  buy  his  appointment.  Tlie  Countess  had  lost  money 
of  late,  and  the  swashbuckler  court  she  kept  had  lately  seen 
some  abridgment  of  its  gaieties. 

"  To  be  brief,  Mr.  Mylrea,  the  Countess  has  half  an  inten- 
tion of  suggesting  your  name  for  the  post,  but  before  doing 
so  sJie  wished  me  to  see  in  what  way  your  feelings  lie  with 
regard  to  it." 

Thorkell's  little  eyes  twinkled,  and  his  lips  took  an  upward 
curve.  He  placed  one  hand  over  his  breast  and  bent  his 
head. 

"My  feelings,  madam,  lie  in  one  way  only — the  way  of 
gratitude,"  he  said  meekly. 

The  lady's  face  broadened,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"  It  is  a  great  distinction,  Mr.  Mylrea,"  said  the  lady,  and 
she  drew  Iier  breath  inwards. 

'^The  greater  my  gratitude,"  said  Thorkell. 

"  And  how  far  would  you  go  to  show  this  gratitude  to  the 
Countess  ? " 

"Any  length,  madam,"  said  Thorkell,  and  he  rose  and 
bowed. 

"  The  Countess  is  at  present  at  Bath " 

"I  would  go  so  far,  and — f^irther,  madam,  farther,"  said 
Thorkell,  and  as  he  spoke  he  thrust  his  right  hand  deep  into 
his  pocket,  and  there — by  what  accident  may  not  be  said — it 
touched  some  coins  that  chinked. 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  the  lady  rose  and  held 
out  her  hand,  and  said  in  a  significant  tone — 

"  I  think,  sir,  I  may  already  venture  to  hail  you  as  Deemster 
of  Man." 

Thorkell  cantered  home  in  great  elevation  of  soul.  The 
milestones  fell  behind  him  one  after  one,  and  he  did  not 
feel  the  burden  of  the  way.  His  head  was  in  his  breast; 
his  body  was  bent  over  his  saddle-bow ;  again  and  again  a 
trill  of  light  laughter  came  from  his  lips.  Where  were  his 
dreams  now,  his  omens,  his  spells,  and  the  power  of  the 
evil  eye  ?  He  was  judge  of  his  island.  He  was  master  of 
his  fate. 

Passing  through  St.  John's,  he  covered  the  bleak  top  of 
the  hill,  and  turned  down  towards  the  shady  copse  of  Kirk 
Michael.  Where  the  trees  were  thickest  in  the  valley  he 
drew  rein  by  a  low,  long  house  that  stood  back  to  the  road, 

24 


THE   DEEMSTER   OF   MAN 

It  was  the  residence  of  the  Bishop  of  the  island,  but  it  was 
now  empty.  The  bishopric  had  been  vacant  these  five  years, 
and  under  the  heavy  rains  from  the  hills  and  the  strong 
wiiids  from  the  sea  the  old  house  had  fallen  into  decay. 

Thorkell  sat  in  the  saddle  under  the  tall  elms  in  the  dim 
light,  and  his  mind  was  busy  with  many  thoughts.  His 
memory  went  back  with  something  akin  to  tenderness  to 
the  last  days  of  old  Ewan  his  father ;  to  his  brother,  Gilcrist, 
and  then,  by  a  sudden  transition,  to  the  incidents  of  that 
morning  at  Castle  Rushen.  How  far  in  the  past  that  morn- 
ing seemed  to  be ! 

The  last  rook  had  cawed  out  its  low  guttural  note,  and  the 
last  gleam  of  daylight  died  off  between  the  thick  boughs  of 
the  dark  trees  that  pattered  lightly  overhead,  as  Thorkell 
set  off  afresh. 

When  he  arrived  at  Ballamona  the  night  was  dark.  The 
Archdeacon  was  sitting  with  his  daughter,  who  had  not  left 
her  room  that  day.  Thorkell,  still  booted  and  spurred,  ran 
like  a  squirrel  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  bedroom.  In  twenty 
hot  words  that  were  fired  off  like  a  cloud  of  small  shot  from 
a  blunderbuss,  Thorkell  told  what  had  occurred.  His  wife's 
white  face  showed  no  pleasure  and  betrayed  no  surprise. 
Her  silence  acted  on  Thorkell  as  a  rebuke,  and  when  her 
eyes  rested  on  his  face  he  turned  his  own  eyes  aside.  The 
Archdeacon  was  almost  speechless,  but  his  look  of  astonish- 
ment was  eloquent,  and  when  Thorkell  left  the  room  he 
followed  him  out. 

At  supper  the  Archdeacon's  manner  was  that  of  deep 
amity. 

"They  are  prompt  to  appoint  a  Deemster,"  he  said. 
"  Has  it  not  struck  you  as  strange  that  the  bishopric  has 
been  vacant  so  long  ?  " 

Thorkell  laughed  a  little  over  his  plate,  and  answered  that 
it  was  strange. 

"  Maybe  it  only  needs  that  a  name  should  be  suggested,' 
continued  the  Archdeacon.  "That  is  to  say,  suggested  by 
a  man  of  influence,  a  man  of  position — by  the  Deemster,  for 
instance." 

"Just  that,"  said  Thorkell  with  a  titter. 

Then  there  was  an  interchange  of  further  amity.  When 
the  two  men  rose  from  the  table  the  Archdeacon  said,  with 
a  conscious  smile,  "  Of  course,  if  you  should  occur — if  you 
3  25 


THE   DEEMSTER 

should  ever  think — if,  that  is,  the  Deemster  should  ever 
suggest  a  name  for  the  bishopric — of  course,  he  will  re- 
member that — that  blood,  in  short,  is  thicker  than  water — 
tafuill  nif  s'chee  na  ushtey,  as  the  Manxman  says." 

''  I  will  remember  it,"  said  Thorkell  in  a  significant  tone 
and  with  a  faint  chuckle. 

Satisfied  with  that  day's  work,  with  himself,  and  with  the 
world,  Thorkell  then  went  off  to  bed,  and  lay  down  in  peace 
and  content,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

In  due  course  Thorkell  Mylrea  became  Deemster  Balla- 
mona. 

He  entered  upon  his  duties  after  the  briefest  study  of  the 
Statute  Laws.  A  Manx  judge  dispensed  justice  chiefly  by 
the  Breast  Law^s,  the  unwritten  code  locked  in  his  own 
breast,  and  supposed  to  be  handed  down  from  Deemster  to 
Deemster.  The  popular  superstition  served  Thorkell  in 
good  stead :  there  was  none  to  challenge  his  knowledge  of 
jurisprudence. 

As  soon  as  he  was  settled  in  his  office  he  began  to  make 
inquiries  about  his  brother  Gilcrist.  He  learned  that  after 
leaving  Cambridge  Gilcrist  had  taken  deacon's  orders,  and 
had  become  tutor  to  the  son  of  an  English  nobleman,  and 
afterwards  chaplain  to  the  nobleman's  household.  Thorkell 
addressed  him  a  letter  and  received  a  reply,  and  this  was 
the  first  intercourse  of  the  brothers  since  the  death  of  old 
Ewan.  Gilcrist  had  lately  married  ;  he  held  a  small  living 
on  one  of  the  remote  moors  of  Yorkshire :  he  loved  his 
people  and  was  beloved  by  them.  Thorkell  wrote  again  and 
again,  and  yet  again,  and  his  letters  ran  through  every  tone 
of  remonstrance  and  entreaty.  The  end  of  it  was  that  the 
Deemster  paid  yet  another  visit  to  the  lady  deputy  at  Castle 
Rushen,  and  the  rumour  passed  over  the  island  that  the  same 
potent  influence  that  had  made  Thorkell  a  Deemster  was 
about  to  make  his  brother  the  Bishop  of  Man. 

Then  the  Archdeacon  came  down  in  white  wrath  to  Bal- 
lamona,  and  reminded  his  son-in-law  of  his  many  obligations, 
touched  on  benefits  forgot,  hinted  at  dark  sayings  and 
darker  deeds,  mentioned,  with  a  significant  accent,  the  girl 
Mally  Kerruish,  protested  that  from  causes  not  to  be  named 
he  had  lost  the  esteem  of  his  clergy  and  the  reverence  of  his 
flock,  and  wound  up  with  the  touching  assurance  that  on  that 
very  morning,  as  he  rode  from  Andreas,  he  had  overheard  a 

26 


THE   DEEMSTER   OF   MAN 

burly  Manxman  say  to  the  tawny-headed  fellow  who  walked 
with  him — both  of  them  the  scabbiest  sheep  on  the  hills — 
"  There  goes  the  pazon  that  sold  his  daughter  and  bought 
her  husband." 

Thorkell  listened  to  the  torrent  of  reproaches,  and  then 
said  quietly,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel,  "  Near  is  my  shirt,  but 
nearer  is  my  skin." 

The  Deemster's  wife  held  up  her  head  no  more.  After 
the  christening  she  rarely  left  her  room.  Her  cheeks  grew 
thinner,  paler  they  could  not  grow,  and  her  meek  eyes  lost 
their  faint  lustre.  She  spoke  little,  and  her  interest  in  life 
seemed  to  be  all  but  gone.  There  was  the  same  abject 
submission  to  her  husband,  but  she  saw  less  of  him  day  by 
day.  Only  the  sight  of  her  babe,  wlien  Kerry  brought  it  to 
be  nursed,  restored  to  her  face  the  light  of  a  fleeting  joy.  If 
it  stayed  too  long  at  her  breast,  if  it  cried,  if  its  winsome 
ways  made  her  to  laugh  outright,  the  swift  recoil  of  other 
feelings  saddened  her  to  melancholy,  and  she  would  put  the 
child  from  her  with  a  sigh.  This  went  on  for  several  months, 
and  meantime  the  Deemster  was  too  deeply  immersed  in 
secular  affairs  to  make  serious  note  of  the  shadow  that  hung 
over  his  house.  "  Goll  sheese  ny  Ihiargagh — she's  going  down 
the  steep  places,"  said  Kerry. 

It  was  winter  when  Gilcrist  Mylrea  was  appointed  to  reach 
the  island,  but  he  wrote  that  his  wife's  health  was  failing  her, 
that  it  was  not  unlikely  that  she  was  to  bear  a  child,  and  that 
he  preferred  to  postpone  his  journey  until  the  spring.  Before 
the  gorse  bushes  on  the  mountains  had  caught  their  new 
spears  of  green,  and  before  the  fishermen  of  Peeltown  had 
gone  down  to  the  sea  for  their  first  mackerel,  Thork ell's  wife 
was  lying  in  her  last  illness.  She  sent  for  her  husband  and 
bade  him  farewell.  The  Deemster  saw  no  danger,  and  he 
laughed  at  her  meek  adieu.  She  was  soon  to  be  the  mother 
of  another  of  his  children — that  was  all.  But  she  shook  her 
head  when  he  rallied  her,  and  when  he  lifted  the  little  creep- 
ing, cooing,  babbling  Ewan  from  the  floor  to  his  mother's 
bed,  and  laughed  and  held  up  his  long,  lean,  hairy  finger 
before  the  baby  face  and  asked  the  little  one  with  a  puff  how 
he  would  like  a  little  sister,  the  white  face  on  the  pillow 
twitched  and  fell,  and  the  meek  eyes  filled,  and  the  shadow 
was  over  all. 

"  Good-bye,  Thorkell,  and  for  baby's  sake " 

27 


THE   DEEMSTER 

But  a  shrill  peal  of  Thorkell's  laughter  rang  through  the 
chamber,  and  at  the  next  Instant  he  was  gone  from  the  room. 

That  day  the  wife  of  the  Deemster  passed  beyond  the 
sorrows  of  the  life  that  had  no  joys.  The  angels  of  life  and 
death  had  come  with  linked  hands  to  the  new  homestead  of 
Ballamona,  and  the  young  mother  had  died  in  giving  birth 
to  a  girl. 

When  the  Deemster  heard  what  had  happened  his  loud 
scream  rang  through  every  room  of  the  house:  His  soul  was 
in  ferment ;  he  seemed  to  be  appalled  and  to  be  stricken  not 
with  sorrow,  but  with  fright  and  horror. 

"  She's  dead ;  why,  she's  dead,  she's  dead,"  he  cried 
hysterically ;  "  why  did  not  somebody  tell  me  that  she 
would  die  }  '* 

The  Deemster  buried  his  wife  by  the  side  of  old  Ewan, 
under  the  elder  tree  that  grew  by  the  wall  of  the  churchyard 
that  stands  over  by  the  sea.  He  summoned  no  mourners, 
and  few  stood  with  him  by  the  open  grave.  During  the 
short  funeral  his  horse  was  tied  to  the  cross-timbers  of  the 
lych-gate,  and  while  the  earth  was  still  falling  in  hollow  thiids 
from  the  sexton's  spade  Thorkell  got  into  the  saddle  and 
rode  away. 

Before  sunset  he  waited  by  the  wooden  landing  jetty  at 
Derby  Haven.  The  old  sea  tub,  the  Kijig  Orrij,  made  the 
port  that  day,  and  disembarked  her  passengers.  Among 
tliem  was  the  new  Bishop  of  Man,  Gilcrist  Mylrea.  He 
looked  much  older  for  the  six  years  he  had  been  away.  His 
tall  figure  stooped  heavily ;  his  thick  hair  fell  in  wavelets  on 
his  shoulders,  and  was  already  sprinkled  with  grey ;  his  long 
cheeks  were  deeply  lined.  As  he  stepped  from  the  boat  on 
to  the  jetty  he  carried  something  very  tenderly  in  his  arms. 
He  seemed  to  be  alone. 

The  brothers  met  with  looks  of  constraint  and  bewilder- 
ment. 

''  Where  is  your  wife  ?  "  asked  Thorkell. 

"  She  is  gone,"  said  Gilcrist.  "  1  have  nothing  left  of  her 
but  this,"  and  he  looked  down  at  the  burden  at  his  breast. 

It  was  a  baby  boy.  Thorkell's  face  whitened,  and  terror 
^as  in  his  eyes. 


28 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

CHAPTER    Y 

THE   Manxman's   bishop 

GiLCRisT  Mylrea  had  been  confirmed  Bishop  and  consecra- 
ted in  England,  but  he  had  to  be  installed  in  his  cathedral 
church  at  Peeltown  with  all  the  honours  of  the  insular  decrees. 
The  ceremony  was  not  an  imposing  one.  Few  of  the  native 
population  witnessed  it.  The  Manxman  did  not  love  the 
Church  with  a  love  too  fervent.  "  Pazon,  pazon,"  he  would 
say,  "  what  can  you  expect  from  the  like  o'  that  }  Never  no 
duck  wasn't  hatched  by  a  drake." 

It  was  no  merit  in  the  eyes  of  the  people  that  the  new 
Bishop  was  himself  a  Manxman.  "  Aw,  man,"  they  would 
say,  "I  knew  his  father,"  and  knowledge  of  the  father  im- 
plied a  limitation  of  the  respect  due  to  the  son.  "  What's 
his  family  ? "  would  be  asked  again  and  again  across  the 
hearth  that  scarcely  knew  its  own  family  more  intimately. 
'^  Maybe  some  of  the  first  that's  going,"  would  be  the  answer, 
and  then  there  would  be  a  laugh. 

The  Bishop  was  enthroned  by  Archdeacon  Teare,  who  filled 
his  function  with  what  grace  his  chagrin  would  allow.  Thor- 
kell  watched  his  father-in-law  keenly  during  the  ceremony, 
and  more  than  once  his  little  eyes  twinkled,  and  his  lips  were 
sucked  inwards  as  if  he  rolled  a  delectable  morsel  on  his 
tongue.  Archdeacon  Teare  was  conscious  of  the  close  fire  of 
his  son-in-law's  gaze,  and  after  the  installation  was  done,  and 
the  clergy  that  constituted  priests  and  congregation  were 
breaking  up,  he  approached  the  Deemster  with  a  benevolent 
smile,  and  said,  "  Well,  Thorkell,  we've  had  some  disagree- 
ments, but  we'll  all  meet  for  peace  and  harmony  in  heaven." 

The  Deemster  tittered  audibly,  and  said,  "  I'm  not  so  sure 
of  that,  though." 

"No.f*"  said  the  Archdeacon,  with  elevated  eyebrows. 
"  Why,  why  }  " 

"Because  we  read  in  the  good  Book  that  there  will  be  no 
more  tears,  Archdeacon,"  said  Thorkell,  with  a  laugh  like  the 
whinny  of  a  colt. 

The  Bishop  and  his  brother,  the  Deemster,  got  on  their 
horses,  and  turned  their  heads  towards  the  episcopal  palace. 

2.Q 


THE   DEEMSTER 

It  was  late  when  they  drove  under  the  tall  elms  of  Bishop's 
Court.  The  old  house  was  lit  up  for  their  reception.  Half- 
blind  Kerry  Quayle  had  come  over  from  Ballamona  to  nurse 
the  Bishop's  child,  and  to  put  him  to  bed  in  his  new  home. 
"  Och,  as  sweet  a  baby-boy  as  any  on  the  island,  I'll  go  bail,  as 
the  old  body  said/'  said  Kerry,  and  the  Bishop  patted  her  arm 
with  a  gentle  familiarity.  He  went  up  to  the  little  room  where 
the  child  lay  asleep,  and  stooped  over  the  cot  and  touched 
with  his  lips  the  soft  lips  that  breathed  gently.  Tiie  dignity 
of  the  Bishop  as  he  stood  four  hours  before  under  the  roof  of 
St.  German's  had  sat  less  well  on  this  silent  man  than  the 
tenderness  of  the  father  by  the  side  of  his  motherless  child. 

Thorkell  was  in  great  spirits  that  night.  Twenty  times 
he  drank  to  the  health  of  the  new  Bisliop ;  twenty  times  he 
reminded  him  of  his  own  gracious  offices  towards  securing 
the  bishopric  to  one  of  his  own  family.  Gilcrist  smiled  and 
responded  in  few  words.  He  did  not  deceive  himself;  his 
eyes  were  open.  He  knew  that  Thorkell  had  not  been  so 
anxious  to  make  him  a  Bishop  as  to  prevent  a  place  of  honour 
and  emolument  from  going  to  any  one  less  near  to  himself 
than  his  own  brother.  "  Near  is  my  shirt,"  as  Thorkell  had 
told  the  Archdeacon,  ^^but  nearer  is  my  skin." 

Next  day  the  Bishop  lost  no  time  in  settling  to  his  work. 
His  people  watched  him  closely.  He  found  his  palace  in  a 
forlorn  and  dilapidated  state,  and  the  episcopal  demesne, 
which  was  about  a  square  mile  of  glebe,  as  fallow  as  the 
rough  top  of  the  mountains.  The  money  value  of  this 
bishopric  was  rather  less  than  £500  a  year,  but  out  of  this 
income  he  set  to  work  to  fence  and  drain  his  lands,  plant 
trees,  and  restore  his  house  to  comfort  if  not  to  stateliness. 
"  I  find  my  Patmos  in  ruins,"  he  said,  "  and  that  will  oblige 
me  to  interrupt  my  charity  to  the  poor  in  some  measure." 

He  assumed  none  of  the  social  dignity  of  a  Bishop.  He 
had  no  carriage  and  no  horse  for  riding.  When  he  made  his 
pastoral  visitations  he  went  afoot.  The  journey  to  Douglas 
he  called  crossing  the  Pyrenees,  and  he  likened  his  toilsome 
tramp  across  the  heavy  Curraghs  from  Bishop's  Court  to  Kirk 
Andreas  to  the  passing  of  a  pilgrim  across  a  desert.  "  To 
speak  truth,"  he  would  say,  "  I  have  a  title  too  large  for  my 
scant  fortune  to  maintain." 

His  first  acts  of  episcopal  authority  did  not  conciliate  either 
the  populace  or  their  superiors  in  station.     He  set  his  face 

SO 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

against  the  contraband  trade,  and  refused  communion  to 
those  who  followed  it.  "  Och,  terrible,  wonderful  hard  on 
the  poor  man  he  is,  with  his  laws  agen  honest  trading,  and 
his  by-laws  and  his  customs  and  his  canons  and  the  like  o' 
that  messing." 

It  was  soon  made  clear  that  the  Bishop  did  not  court  popu- 
larity. He  started  a  school  in  each  of  the  parishes  by  the 
help  of  a  lady,  who  settled  a  bounty,  payable  at  the  Bishop's 
pleasure,  for  the  support  of  the  teachers.  The  teachers  were 
appointed  by  his  vicars-general.  One  day  a  number  of  the 
men  of  his  own  parish,  with  Jabez  Gawne,  the  sleek  little 
tailor,  and  Matthias  Taubman,  the  buirdly  maltster,  at  their 
head,  came  up  to  Bishop's  Court  to  complain  of  the  school- 
master appointed  to  Kirk  Michael.  According  to  the  mal- 
contents, the  schoolmaster  was  unable  to  divide  his  syllables, 
and  his  liome,  which  was  the  schoolhouse  also,  was  too  remote 
for  the  convenience  of  the  children.  "  So  we  beseech  your 
Lordship,"  said  little  Jabez,  who  was  spokesman,  *^'to  allow  us 
a  fit  person  to  discharge  the  office,  and  with  submission  we  will 
recommend  one."  The  Bishop  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance ; 
Jabez's  last  words  had  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  it  could 
not  be  said  to  be  a  Manx  cat,  for  it  had  a  most  prodigious 
tail.  Next  day  the  Bishop  went  to  the  school,  examined 
master  and  scholars,  then  called  the  petitioners  together 
and  said,  "  I  find  that  James  Quirk  is  qualified  to  teach  an 
English  school,  and  I  cannot  remove  him ;  but  I  am  of  your 
opinion  that  his  house  is  in  a  remote  part  of  the  parish,  and 
I  shall  expect  the  parishioners  to  build  a  new  schoolhouse  in  a 
convenient  place,  near  the  church,  within  a  reasonable  time, 
otherwise  the  bounty  cannot  be  continued  to  them."  The 
answer  staggered  the  petitioners,  but  they  were  men  with 
the  saving  grace  of  humour,  and  through  the  mouth  of  little 
Jabez,  which  twisted  into  curious  lines,  they  forthwith  sig- 
nified to  his  Lordship  their  earnest  desire  to  meet  his  wish 
by  building  their  schoolhouse  within  the  churchyard. 

Though  a  zealous  upholder  of  Church  authority,  the  Bishop 
was  known  to  temper  justice  with  mercy.  He  had  not  been 
a  month  in  the  diocese  when  his  sumner  told  him  a  painful 
stor/-  of  hard  penance.  A  young  girl  from  near  Peeltown 
had  been  presented  for  incontinence,  and  with  the  partner 
of  her  crime  she  had  been  ordered  to  stand  six  Sundays  at 
the  door  of  six  churches.     The  man,  who  was  rich,  had  com- 

31 


THE   DEEMSTER 

pounded  with  the  Archdeacon,  paying  six  pounds  for  exemp- 
tion, and  being  thenceforward  no  more  mentioned  ;  but  the 
woman,  being  penniless  and  appalled  at  the  disgrace  before 
her,  had  fled  from  the  island.  The  Archdeacon  had  learned 
her  whereabouts  in  England,  and  had  written  to  the  minister 
of  the  place  to  acquaint  him  that  she  was  under  the  Church's 
censure.  The  minister,  on  his  part,  had  laid  before  her  the 
terror  of  her  position  if  she  died  out  of  communion  with 
God's  people.  She  resisted  all  appeals  until  her  time  came, 
and  then,  in  her  travail,  the  force  of  the  idea  had  worked 
upon  her,  and  she  could  resist  it  no  more.  When  she  rose 
from  bed  she  returned  voluntarily  to  the  island,  with  the 
sign  of  her  shame  at  her  breast,  to  undergo  the  penance  of 
her  crime.  She  had  stood  three  Sundays  at  the  doors  of 
three  churches,  but  her  health  was  feeble,  and  she  could 
scarcely  carry  her  child,  so  weak  was  she,  and  so  long  the  dis- 
tances from  her  lodging  in  Peeltown,  "  Let  her  be  pardoned 
the  rest  of  her  penance,"  said  the  Bishop.  "The  Church's 
censure  was  not  passed  on  her  to  afflict  her  with  overmuch 
shame  or  sorrow." 

It  was  not  until  years  afterwards  that  the  Bishop  learned 
the  full  facts  of  the  woman's  case,  and  comprehended  the 
terrible  significance  of  her  punishment.  She  was  Mally 
Kerruish, 

The  island  was  in  the  province  of  York,  and  bound  by 
the  English  canons,  but  the  Bishop  made  his  own  canons, 
and  none  were  heard  to  demur.  Some  of  his  judgments 
were  strange,  but  all  leaned  towards  the  weaker  side.  A 
man  named  Quayle  the  Gyke,  a  blusterous  fellow,  a  thorn 
in  the  side  of  every  official  within  a  radius  t)f  miles,  died 
after  a  long  illness,  leaving  nothing  to  a  legitimate  son  who 
had  nursed  him  affectionately.  This  seemed  to  the  Bishop 
to  be  contrary  to  natural  piety,  and  in  the  exercise  of  his 
authority  he  appointed  the  son  an  executor  with  the  others. 
Quayle  the  younger  lived,  as  we  shall  see,  to  return  evil  for 
the  Bishop's  good.  A  rich  man  of  bad  repute,  Thormod 
Mylechreest,  died  intestate,  leaving  an  illegitimate  son. 
The  Bishop  directed  the  ordinary  to  put  aside  a  sum  of 
money  out  of  the  estate  for  the  maintenance  and  education 
of  the  child.  But  Thorkell  came  down  in  the  name  of  the 
civil  power,  reversed  the  spiritual  judgment,  ordered  that 
the  whole  belongings  of  the  deceased  should  be  confiscated 

32 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

to  the  Lord  of  the  Isle,  and  left  the  base-begotten  to 
charity.  We  shall  also  see  that  the  bastard  returned  good 
for  Thorkell's  evil. 

The  canons  and  customs  of  Bishop  Mylrea  not  only  leaned 
— sometimes  with  too  great  indulgence — to  the  weaker  side, 
but  they  supposed  faith  in  the  people  by  allowing  a  voluntary 
oath  as  evidence,  and  this  made  false  swearing  a  terror. 
Except  in  the  degree  of  superstition,  he  encouraged  belief 
in  all  its  forms.  He  trusted  an  oath  implicitly,  but  no  man 
ever  heard  him  gainsay  his  yea  or  nay. 

A  hoary  old  dog  known  as  Billy  the  Gawk,  who  had  never 
worked  within  living  memory,  who  lived  as  they  said  "  on  the 
houses,"  and  frequented  the  pot-house  with  more  than  the 
regularity  of  religious  observance,  was  not  long  in  finding  out 
that  Bishop's  Court  had  awakened  from  its  protracted  sleep. 
The  Bishop  was  abroad  for  his  morning's  ramble,  and  while 
leaning  against  the  sunny  side  of  a  high  turf  hedge,  looking 
vacantly  out  to  sea,  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  road  behind 
him,  and  then  a  dialogue,  of  which  this  is  a  brief  summary  : 

"  Going  up  to  the  Coort,  eh  }  Ah,  well,  it's  plenty  that's 
there  to  take  the  edge  off  your  stomach ;  plenty,  plenty,  and 
a  rael  welcome  too." 

"Ah,  it's  not  the  stomach  that's  bothering  me.  It's  the 
narves,  boy,  the  narves,  and  a  drop  of  the  rael  stuff  is  worth 
a  Jew's  eye  for  studdying  a  man  after  a  night  of  it,  as  the 
saying  is." 

"Aw,  Billy,  Billy,  aw  well,  well,  well." 

The  conversation  died  off  on  the  Bishop's  ear  in  a  loud 
roystering  laugh  and  a  low  gurgle  as  undertone. 

Half-an-hour  later  Billy  the  Gawk  stood  before  the  Bishop 
inside  the  gates  of  Bishop's  Court.  The  old  dog's  head  hung 
low,  his  battered  hat  was  over  his  eyes,  and  both  his  trembling 
hands  leaned  heavily  on  his  thick  blackthorn  stick. 

"  And  how  do  you  live,  my  man  }  "  asked  the  Bishop. 

"I'm  getting  a  bite  here,  and  a  sup  there,  and  I've  had 
terrible  little  but  a  bit  o'  barley  bread  since  yesterday  morn- 
ing," said  the  Gawk. 

"Poor  man,  that's  hard  fare,"  said  the  Bishop;  "but  mind 
you  call  here  every  day  for  the  future." 

Billy  got  a  measure  of  corn  worth  sixpence,  and  went 
straightway  to  the-  village,  where  he  sold  it  at  the  pot-house 
for  as  much  liquor  as  could  have  been  bought  for  three-half- 

S3 


THE   DEEMSTER 

pence.  And  as  Billy  the  Gawk  drank  his  drop  of  the  real 
stuff  he  laughed  very  loud,  and  boasted  that  he  could  outwit 
the  Bishop.  But  the  liquor  got  into  his  head,,  and  from 
laughing  he  went  on  to  swearing,  and  thence  to  fighting, 
until  the  innkeeper  turned  him  out  into  the  road,  where, 
under  the  weight  of  his  measure  of  corn  taken  in  solution, 
Billy  sank  into  a  dead  slumber.  The  Bishop  chanced  to 
take  an  evening  walk  that  day,  and  he  found  his  poor  pen- 
sioner, who  fared  hard,  lodged  on  a  harder  bed,  and  he  had 
him  picked  up  and  carried  into  the  house.  Next  morning, 
when  Billy  awoke  and  found  where  he  was,  and  remembered 
what  had  occurred,  an  unaccustomed  sensation  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  and  he  stole  away  unobserved.  The  hoary  old 
dog  was  never  seen  again  at  Bishop's  Court. 

But  if  Billy  never  came  again,  his  kith  and  kin  came 
frequently.  It  became  a  jest  that  the  Bishop  kept  the 
beggars  from  every  house  but  his  own,  and  that  no  one 
else  could  get  a  beggar. 

He  had  a  book,  which  he  called  his  "  Matricula  Pauperum," 
in  which  he  entered  the  names  of  his  pensioners,  with  notes 
of  their  circumstances.  He  knew  all  the  bits  of  family  history 
— when  Jemmy  Corkell's  wife  was  down  with  lumbago,  and 
when  Robbie  Quirk  was  to  kill  his  little  pig. 

Billy  the  Gawk  was  not  alone  in  thinking  that  he  could 
outwdt  the  Bishop.  When  the  Bishop  wanted  a  new  pair  ot' 
boots  or  a  new  coat,  the  tailor  or  shoemaker  came  to  Bishop's 
Court,  and  was  kept  there  until  his  job  of  work  was  finished. 
The  first  winter  after  his  arrival  in  his  Patmos,  he  wanted  a 
cloak,  and  sent  for  Jabez  Gawne,  the  sleek  little  fox  who  had 
been  spokesman  for  the  conspirators  against  James  Quirk,  the 
schoolmaster.  Jabez  had  cut  out  the  cloak,  and  was  pre- 
paring it  for  a  truly  gorgeous  adornment  when  the  Bishop 
ordered  him  to  put  merely  a  button  and  a  loop  on  it  to  keep 
it  together.  Jabez  thereupon  dropped  his  cloth  and  held  up 
his  hands  where  he  sat  cross-legged  on  the  kitchen  dresser, 
and  exclaimed  with  every  accent  of  aggrieved  surprise — 

"  My  Lord,  what  would  become  of  the  poor  button-makers 
and  their  families  if  every  one  ordered  his  tailor  in  that  way  }  " 

"How  so,  Jabez  ?" 

"  Why,  they  would  be  starved  outright.** 

"  Do  you  say  so,  Jabez  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  Lord,  I  do." 

24> 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

"  Then  button  it  all  over,  Jabez/'  said  the  Bishop. 

The  Deemster  was  present  at  that  interview,  and  went 
away  from  it  tittering  audibly. 

"  Give  to  the  raven  and  he'll  come  again/'  he  muttered. 

"I  forgot  that  poor  Jabez  would  have  his  buttons  in  his 
breeches  pocket,"  said  the  Bishop. 

The  Manxman  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  concerning 
the  composite  character  of  Bishop  Mylrea — his  dignity  and  his 
humility,  his  reserve  and  his  simplicity — when  a  great  event 
settled  for  the  Manxman's  heart  the  problem  that  had  been 
too  much  for  his  head.  This  was  no  less  a  catastrophe  than 
a  general  famine.  It  came  upon  the  island  in  the  second 
year  of  the  Bishop's  residence,  and  was  the  cause  of  many 
changes.  One  of  the  changes  was  that  the  Bishop  came  to 
be  regarded  by  his  people  with  the  reverence  of  Israel  for 
Samuel,  and  by  his  brother,  the  Deemster,  with  the  distrust, 
envy,  and,  at  length,  mingled  fear  and  hatred,  of  Saul  for 
Israel's  prophet. 

The  land  of  the  island  had  been  held  under  a  tenure  of 
straw,  known  as  the  three  lives  tenure ;  the  third  life  was 
everywhere  running  out,  and  the  farms  were  reverting  to  the 
Lord  of  the  Isle.  This  disheartened  the  farmers,  who  lost  all 
interest  in  agriculture,  let  their  lands  lie  fallow,  and  turned 
to  the  only  other  industry  in  which  they  had  an  interest,  the 
herring  fishing.  The  herrings  failed  this  season,  and  without 
fish,  with  empty  barns,  and  a  scant  potato  crop,  caused  by  a 
long  summer  of  drought,  the  people  were  reduced  to  poverty. 

Then  the  Bishop  opened  wider  the  gates  of  Bishop's  Court, 
which  since  his  coming  had  never  been  closed.  Heaven 
seemed  to  have  given  him  a  special  blessing.  The  drought 
had  parched  up  the  grass  even  of  the  damp  Curragh,  and  left 
bleached  on  the  whitening  mould  the  poor,  thin,  dwarfed 
corn,  tliat  could  never  be  reaped.  But  the  glebe  of  Bishop's 
Court  gave  fair  crops,  and  when  the  people  cried  in  the  grip 
of  their  necessity  the  Bishop  sent  round  a  pastoral  letter  to 
his  clergy,  saying  that  he  had  eight  hundred  bushels  of  wheat, 
barley,  and  oats  more  than  his  household  required.  Then 
there  came  from  the  north  and  the  south,  the  east  and  the 
west,  long  straggling  troops  of  buyers  with  little  or  no  money 
to  buy,  and  Bishop's  Court  was  turned  into  a  public  market. 
The  Bishop  sold  to  those  who  had  money  at  the  price  that 
corn  fetched  before  the  famine,  and  in  his  bam  behind  the 

S5 


THE   DEEMSTER 

house  he  kept  a  chest  for  those  who  came  in  at  the  back  with 
nothing  but  sacks  in  their  hands.  Once  a  day  he  inspected 
the  chest,  and  when  it  was  low,  which  was  frequently,  he 
replenished  it,  and  when  it  was  high,  which  was  rarely,  he 
smiled,  and  said  that  God  was  turning  away  His  displeasure 
from  His  people. 

The  eight  hundred  bushels  were  at  an  end  in  a  month,  and 
still  the  famine  continued.  Then  the  Bishop  bought  eight 
hundred  other  bushels :  wheat  at  ten  shillings,  barley  at  six 
shillings,  and  oats  at  four  shillings,  and  sold  them  at  half 
these  prices.  He  gave  orders  that  the  bushel  of  the  poor 
man  was  not  to  be  stroked,  but  left  in  heaped-up  measure. 

A  second  month  went  by ;  the  second  eight  hundred 
bushels  were  consumed,  and  the  famine  showed  no  abate- 
ment. The  Bishop  waited  for  vessels  from  Liverpool,  but  no 
vessels  came.  He  was  a  poor  priest,  with  a  great  title,  and 
he  had  little  money ;  but  he  wrote  to  England,  asking  for  a 
thousand  bushels  of  grain  and  five  hundred  kischen  of  potatoes, 
and  promised  to  pay  at  six  days  after  the  next  annual  revenue. 
A  week  of  weary  waiting  ensued,  and  every  day  the  Bishop 
cheered  the  haggard  folk  that  came  to  Bishop's  Court  with 
accounts  of  the  provisions  that  were  coming ;  and  every  day 
they  went  up  on  to  the  head  of  the  hill,  and  strained  their 
bleared  eyes  seaward  for  the  sails  of  an  English  ship.  When 
patience  was  worn  to  despair,  the  old  Ki77g  Orry  brought 
the  Bishop  a  letter  saying  that  the  drought  had  been  general, 
that  the  famine  was  felt  throughout  the  kingdom,  and  that  an 
embargo  had  been  put  on  all  food  to  forbid  traders  to  send  it 
from  English  shores.  Then  the  voice  of  the  hungry  multi- 
tudes went  up  in  one  deep  cry  of  pain.  "The  hunger  is  on 
us,"  they  moaned.  "  Poor  once,  poor  for  ever,"  they  muttered ; 
and  the  voice  of  the  Bishop  was  silent. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  further  disaster  threatened  the 
people.  Their  cattle,  which  they  could  not  sell,  they  had 
grazed  on  the  mountains,  and  the  milk  of  the  cows  had  been 
the  chief  food  of  the  children,  and  the  wool  of  the  sheep  the 
only  clothing  of  the  old  men.  With  parched  meadows  and 
Curraghs,  where  the  turf  was  so  dry  that  it  would  take  fire 
from  the  sun,  the  broad  tops  of  the  furze-covered  hills  were 
the  sole  resource  of  the  poor.  At  daybreak  the  shepherd 
with  his  six  ewe  lambs  and  one  goat,  and  the  day-labourer 
with  his  cow,   would  troop  up  to  where  the  grass  looked 

3d 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

greenest,  and  at  dusk  they  would  come  down  to  shelter,  with 
weary  limbs  and  heavy  hearts.  "  What's  it  sayin'/'  they 
would  mutter,  "  a  green  hill  when  far  from  me ;  bare,  bare, 
when  it  is  near." 

At  this  crisis  it  began  to  be  whispered  that  the  Deemster 
had  made  aa  offer  to  the  Lord  to  rent  the  whole  stretch 
of  mountain  land  from  Ramsey  to  Peeltown.  The  rumour 
created  consternation,  and  was  not  at  first  believed.  But 
one  day  the  Deemster,  with  the  Governor  of  the  Grand 
Enquest,  drove  to  the  glen  at  Sulby  and  went  up  the  hill- 
side. Not  long  after,  a  light  cart  was  seen  to  follow  the 
high  road  to  the  glen  beyond  Ballaugh  and  then  turn  up 
towards  the  mountains  by  the  cart  track.  The  people  who 
were  grazing  their  cattle  on  the  hills  came  down  and  gathered 
with  the  people  of  the  valleys  at  the  foot,  and  there  were 
dark  faces  and  firm-set  lips  among  them,  and  hot  words  and 
deep  oaths  were  heard.  "  Let's  off  to  the  Bishop,"  said  one, 
and  they  went  to  Bishop's  Court.  Half-an-hour  later  the 
Bishop  came  from  Bishop's  Court  at  the  head  of  a  draggled 
company  of  men,  and  his  face  was  white  and  hard.  They  over- 
took the  cart  halfway  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  the 
Bishop  called  on  the  driver  to  stop,  and  asked  what  he  carried, 
and  where  he  was  going.  The  man  answered  that  he  had 
provisions  for  the  Governor,  the  Deemster,  and  the  Grand 
Enquest,  who  were  surveying  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 

The  Bishop  looked  round,  and  his  lip  was  set,  and  his 
nostrils  quivered.  "  Can  any  man  lend  me  a  knife } "  he 
asked  with  a  strained  quietness. 

A  huge  knife  was  handed  to  him,  such  as  shepherds  carried 
in  the  long  legs  of  their  boots.  He  stepped  to  the  cart  and 
ripped  up  the  harness,  which  was  rope  harness ;  the  shafts 
fell  and  the  horse  was  free.  Then  the  Bishop  turned  to  the 
driver  and  said  very  quietly — 

"  Where  do  you  live,  my  man  ?  " 

"At  Sulby,  my  Lord,"  said  the  man,  trembling  with 
fear. 

"  You  shall  have  leather  harness  to-morrow." 

Then  the  Bishop  went  on,  his  soiled  and  draggled  com- 
pany following  him,  the  cart  lying  helpless  in  the  cart  track 
behind  them. 

When  they  got  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  they  could  see 
the  Governor  and  the  Deemster  and  their  associates  stretch- 

37 


THE   DEEMSTER 

ing  the  chain  in  the  purple  distance.     The  Bishop  made  in 
their  direction,  and  when  he  came  up  with  them  he  said — 

"Gentlemen,  no  food  will  reach  you  on  the  mountains 
to-day ;  the  harness  of  your  cart  has  been  cut,  and  cart  and 
provisions  are  lying  on  the  hill-side." 

At  this  Thorkell  turned  white  with  wrath,  and  clenched 
his  fists  and  stamped  his  foot  on  the  turf,  and  looked  pierc- 
ingly into  the  faces  of  the  Bishop's  followers. 

"As  sure  as  I'm  Deemster,"  he  said  with  an  oath,  "the 
man  who  has  done  this  shall  suffer.  Don't  let  him  deceive 
himself — no  one,  not  even  the  Bishop  himself,  shall  step  in 
between  that  man  and  the  punishment  of  the  law." 

The  Bishop  listened  with  calmness,  and  then  said,  "Thorkell, 
the  Bishop  will  not  intercede  for  him.    Punish  him  if  you  can." 

"^And  so  by  God  I  will,"  cried  the  Deemster,  and  his  eye 
traversed  the  men  behind  his  brother. 

The  Bishop  then  took  a  step  forward.  "  /  am  that  man," 
he  said,  and  then  there  was  a  great  silence. 

Thorkell's  face  flinched,  his  head  fell  between  his  shoulders, 
his  manner  grew  dogged,  he  said  not  a  word,  his  braggadocio 
was  gone. 

The  Bishop  approached  the  Governor.  "  You  have  no  more 
right  to  rent  these  mountains  than  to  rent  yonder  sea,"  he 
said,  and  he  stretched  his  arm  towards  the  broad  blue  line  to 
the  west.  "^  They  belong  to  God  and  to  the  poor.  Let  me  warn 
you,  sir,  that  as  sure  as  j^ou  set  up  one  stone  to  enclose  these 
true  God's  acres,  I  shall  be  the  first  to  pull  that  stone  down." 

The  Grand  Enquest  broke  up  in  confusion,  and  the  moun- 
tains were  saved  to  the  people. 

It  blew  hard  on  the  hill  top  that  day,  and  the  next 
morning  the  news  spread  through  the  island  that  a  ship  laden 
with  barley  had  put  in  from  bad  weather  at  Douglas  Harbour. 
"And  a  terrible  wonderful  sight  of  corn,  plenty  for  all, 
plenty,  plenty,"  was  the  word  that  went  round.  In  three 
hours'  time  hundreds  of  men  and  women  trooped  down  to 
the  quay  with  money  to  buy.  To  all  comers  the  master 
shook  his  head,  and  refused  to  sell. 

"  Sell,  man — sell,  sell,"  they  cried. 

"I  can't  sell.  The  cargo  is  not  mine.  I'm  a  poor  man 
myself,"  said  the  master. 

"  Well,  and  what's  that  it's  sayin',  '  When  one  poor  man 
helps  another  poor  man,  God  laughs.'  " 

38 


THE   MANXMAN'S   BISHOP 

The  Bishop  came  to  the  ship's  side,  and  tried  to  treat  for 
the  cargo. 

"  I've  given  bond  to  land  it  all  at  Whitehaven/'  said  the 
master. 

Then  the  people's  faces  grew  black,  and  deep  caths  rose  to 
their  lips,  and  they  turned  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
in  their  impotent  rage.  '*^The  hunger  is  on  us — we  can't 
starve — let  every  herring  hang  by  its  own  gill — let's  board 
lier,"  they  muttered  among  themselves. 

And  the  Bishop  heard  their  threats.  "My  people,"  he  said, 
"  what  will  become  of  this  poor  island  unless  God  averts  His 
awful  judgments,  only  God  Himself  can  know  ;  but  this  good 
man  has  given  his  bond,  and  let  us  not  bring  on  our  heads 
God's  further  displeasure." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  discontent,  and  then  one  long  sigh 
of  patient  endurance,  and  then  the  Bishop  lifted  his  hands, 
and  down  on  their  knees  on  the  quay  the  people  with  famished 
faces  fell  around  the  tall,  drooping  figure  of  the  man  of  God, 
and  from  parched  throats,  and  hearts  well  nigh  as  dry,  sent 
up  a  great  cry  to  heaven  to  grant  them  succour  lest  they 
should  die. 

About  a  week  afterwards,  another  ship  put  in  by  contrary 
winds  at  Castletown.  It  had  a  cargo  of  Welsh  oats  bound  to 
Dumfries,  on  the  order  of  the  Provost.  The  contrary  winds 
continued,  and  the  corn  began  to  heat  and  spoil.  The  hungry 
populace,  enraged  by  famine,  called  on  the  master  to  sell.  He 
was  powerless.  Then  the  Bishop  walked  over  his  "  Pyrenees," 
and  saw  that  the  food  for  which  his  people  hungered  was 
perishing  before  their  eyes.  When  the  master  said  "  No  "  to 
him,  as  to  others,  he  remembered  how  in  old  time  David,  being 
an  hungered,  did  that  which  was  not  lawful  in  eating  of  the 
shewbread  ;  and  straightway  he  went  up  to  Castle  Ruslien,  got 
a  company  of  musketeers,  returned  with  them  to  the  ship's 
side,  boarded  the  ship,  put  the  master  and  crew  in  irons,  and 
took  possession  of  the  corn. 

What  wild  joy  among  the  people !  What  shouts  were  heard ; 
what  tears  rolled  down  the  stony  cheeks  of  stern  men  ! 

"  Patience  ! "  cried  the  Bishop.  "  Bring  the  market  weights 
and  scales." 

The  scales  and  weights  were  brought  down  to  the  quay, 
and  every  bushel  of  the  cargo  was  exactly  weighed,  and  paid 
for  at  the  prime  price  according  to  the  master's  report.  Then 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  master  and  crew  were  liberated,  and  the  Bishop  paid  the 
ship's  freight  out  of  his  own  purse.  When  he  passed  through 
the  market-place  on  his  way  back  to  the  Bishop's  Court  the 
people  followed  with  eyes  that  were  almost  too  dim  to  see, 
and  they  blessed  him  in  cheers  that  were  sobs. 

And  then  God  remembered  His  people,  and  their  troubles 
passed  away.  With  the  opening  spring  the  mackerel  nets 
came  back  to  the  boats  in  shining  silver  masses,  and  peace 
and  plenty  came  again  to  the  hearth  of  the  poorest. 

The  Manxman  knew  his  Bishop  now ;  he  knew  him  for 
the  strongest  soul  in  the  dark  hour,  the  serenest  saint  in  the 
hour  of  light  and  peace.  That  hoary  old  dog,  Billy  the  Gawk, 
took  his  knife  and  scratched  "  B.M.,"  and  the  year  of  the  Lord 
on  the  inside  of  his  cupboard  door,  to  record  the  advent  of 
Bishop  Mylrea. 

A  mason  from  Ireland,  a  Catholic  named  Patrick  Looney, 
was  that  day  at  work  building  the  square  tower  of  the  church 
of  the  market-place,  and  when  he  saw  the  Bishop  pass  under 
him  he  went  down  on  his  knees  on  the  scaffold  and  dropped 
his  head  for  the  good  man's  blessing. 

A  little  girl  of  seven  with  sunny  eyes  and  yellow  hair  stood 
by  at  that  moment,  and  for  love  of  the  child's  happy  face  the 
Bishop  touched  her  head  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  my  sweet 
child.'* 

The  little  one  lifted  her  innocent  eyes  to  his  eyes,  and 
answered  with  a  curtsey,  "And  God  bless  you,  too,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  child,  thank  you,"  said  the  Bishop.  ''  I  do 
not  doubt  that  your  blessing  will  be  as  good  as  mine." 

Such  was  Gilcrist  Mylrea,  Bishop  of  Man.  He  needed  all 
his  strength  and  all  his  tenderness  for  the  trials  that  were 
to  come. 


CHAPTER  YI 

THE    COSY    NEST   AT   BISIIOP's    COURT 

The  children  of  the  Deemster  and  Bishop  spent  the  first  five 
years  as  one  little  brood  in  the  cosy  nest  at  Bishop's  Court. 
The  arrangement  was  agreeable  to  both  brothers  while  it  lasted. 
It  left  Ballamona  a  silent  place,  but  the  master  recked  little  of 
that     The  Deemster  kept  no  company,  or  next  to  none.     He 

40 


THE   COSY   NEST  AT   BISHOP'S  COURT 

dismissed  all  his  domestics  except  one,  and  Hommy-beg,  who 
had  been  gardener  hitherto,  became  groom  as  well.  The  new 
Ballamona  began  to  gather  a  musty  odour,  and  the  old  Balla- 
mona  took  the  moss  on  its  wall  and  the  lichen  on  its  roof. 
The  Deemster  rose  early  and  went  late  to  bed.  Much  of  the 
day  was  spent  in  the  saddle  passing  from  town  to  town  of  his 
northern  circuit;  for  he  held  a  court  twice  weekly  at  Ramsey  and 
Peeltown.  Towards  nightfall  he  was  usually  back  at  his  house, 
sitting  alone  by  the  fireplace,  whether,  as  in  the  long  nights 
of  winter,  a  peat  fire  burned  there,  or,  as  in  the  summer  even- 
ings, the  hearth  was  empty.  Hardly  a  sound  broke  the  dead 
quiet  of  the  solitary  place,  save  when  some  litigious  farmer 
who  had  caught  his  neighbour  in  the  act  of  trespass  brought 
him  there  and  then  for  judgment  to  the  Deemster's  house  by 
that  most  summary  kind  of  summons — the  force  of  superior 
muscles.  On  such  occasions  the  plaintiff  and  defendant,  with 
their  noisy  witnesses,  would  troop  into  the  hall  with  the  yaps 
and  snaps  of  a  pack  of  dogs,  and  Thorkell  would  twist  in  his 
chair  and  fine  one  of  them,  or  perhaps  both,  and  pocket  their 
money,  and  then  drive  them  all  away  dissatisfied,  to  settle  their 
dispute  by  other  means  in  the  darkness  of  the  road  outside. 

Meantime  Bishop's  Court  was  musical  with  children's  voices, 
and  with  the  patter  of  tiny  feet  that  feiTcted  out  every  nook 
and  cranny  of  the  old  place.  There  was  Ewan,  the  Deemster's 
son,  a  slight,  sensitive  boy,  who  listened  to  you  with  his  head 
aslant,  and  with  absent  looks.  There  was  wee  Mona,  Ewan's 
meek  sister,  with  the  big  eyes  and  the  quiet  ways,  who  liked 
to  be  fondled,  and  would  cry  sometimes  when  no  one  knew 
why.  And  then  there  was  Daniel — Danny — Dan,  the  Bishop's 
boy,  a  braw  little  rogue,  with  a  slice  of  the  man  in  him,  as 
broad  as  he  was  long,  with  tousled  fair  head  and  face  usually 
smudged,  laughing  a  good  deal  and  not  crying  over  much, 
loving  a  good  tug  or  a  delightful  bit  of  a  fight,  and  always 
feeling  high  disdain  at  being  kissed.  And  the  Bishop,  God 
bless  him  !  was  father  and  mother  both  to  the  motherless 
brood,  though  Kerry  Quayle  was  kept  as  nurse.  He  would 
t' 11  a  story,  or  perhaps  sing  one,  while  Mona  sat  on  his  knee 
with  her  pretty  head  resting  on  his  breast,  and  Ewan  held  on 
to  his  chair  with  his  shy  head  hanging  on  his  own  shoulder, 
and  his  eyes  looking  out  at  the  window,  listening  intently  in 
his  queer  little  absent  way.  And  when  Dan,  in  lordly  con- 
tempt of  such  doings,  would  break  in  on  song  or  story,  and 
4  41 


THE   DEEMSTER 

tear  his  way  up  the  back  of  the  chair  to  the  back  of  the 
Bishop,  Mona  would  be  set  on  her  feet,  and  the  biggest  baby 
of  the  four  there  present  would  slide  down  on  to  his  hands 
and  knees  and  creep  along  the  floor  with  the  great  little  man 
astride  him,  and  whinny  like  a  horse,  or  perhaps  bark  like  a 
dog,  and  pretend  to  leap  the  four-bar  gate  of  the  baby's  chair 
tumbled  down  on  its  side.  And  when  Dan  would  slide  from 
his  saddle,  and  the  restless  horseman  would  turn  coachman 
and  tug  the  mane  of  his  steed,  and  all  the  Bishop's  long  hair 
would  tumble  over  his  face,  what  shrieks  of  laughter,  what 
rolling  on  the  ground  and  tossing  up  of  bare  legs  !  And  then 
when  supper-time  came,  and  the  porridge  would  be  brought  in, 
and  little  Mona  would  begin  to  whimper,  because  she  had  to 
eat  it,  and  Ewan  to  fret  because  it  was  barley  porridge  and  not 
oaten  cake,  and  Dan  to  devour  his  share  with  silent  industry, 
and  then  bellow  for  more  than  was  good  for  him,  what  schemes 
the  good  Bishop  resorted  to,  what  promises  he  made,  what 
crafty  tricks  he  learned,  what  an  artful  old  pate  his  simple 
head  suddenly  became  !  And,  then,  when  Kerry  came  with 
the  tub  and  the  towels,  and  three  little  naked  bodies  had  to 
be  bathed,  and  the  Bishop  stole  away  to  his  unfinished  sermon, 
and  little  Mona's  wet  hands  clung  to  Kerry's  dress,  and  Ewan, 
standing  bolt  upright  in  the  three  inches  of  water,  blubbered 
while  he  rubbed  the  sponge  over  an  inch  and  a  half  of  one 
cheek,  and  Dan  sat  on  his  haunches  in  the  bottom  of  the  tub 
splashing  the  water  on  every  side  and  shrieking  at  every 
splash  ;  then  the  fearful  commotion  would  bring  the  Bishop 
back  from  the  dusky  room  upstairs,  where  the  shaded  lamp 
burned  on  a  table  that  was  littered  with  papers.  And  at  last, 
when  the  day's  big  battle  was  done,  and  night's  bigger  battle 
began,  and  three  night-dresses  were  popped  over  three  wary 
heads  that  dodged  them  when  they  could,  the  Bishop  would 
carry  three  sleepless,  squealing  piggies  to  bed — Mona  at  his 
breast  because  she  was  little,  Ewan  on  his  back  because  he 
was  big,  and  Dan  across  his  shoulders  because  he  could  not  get 
to  any  loftier  perch.  Presently  there  would  be  three  little 
pairs  of  knees  by  the  crib-side,  and  then  three  little  flaxen 
polls  on  the  pillow,  tumbling  and  tossing,  and  with  the  great 
dark  head  of  the  Bishop  shaking  gravely  at  them  from  over 
the  counterpane,  and  then  a  husli  broken  by  a  question  lisped 
drowsily,  or  a  baby  rhyme  that  ran  a  line  or  two  and  stopped, 
and  at  length  the  long,  deep  quiet  and  the  silence  of  sleep, 

42 


THE   COSY   NEST   AT   BISHOP'S   COURT 

and  the  Bishop  going  off  on  tiptoe  to  the  dusky  room  with 
the  shaded  lamp,  and  to-morrow's  sermon  lying  half-written 
beneath  it. 

And  so  five  tearing,  romping  years  went  by,  and  though  they 
were  the  years  of  the  famine  and  the  pestilence,  and  of  many 
another  dark  cloud  that  hung  blackest  over  Bishop's  Court,  a 
world  of  happiness  was  crowded  into  them.  Then  when  Ewan 
was  six  years  old,  and  Danny  and  Mona  were  five,  and  the  boys 
were  buttoning  their  own  corduroys,  the  Deemster  came  over 
from  Ballamona  and  broke  up  the  little  nest  of  humming-birds. 

'^Gilcrist,"  said  Thorkell,  "you  are  ruining  the  children, 
and  I  must  take  my  own  away  from  you." 

The  Bishop's  grave  face  grew  suddenly  white,  and  when 
after  a  pause  he  said,  "  No,  no,  Thorkell,  you  don't  mean  that," 
there  was  a  tremor  in  his  deep  voice. 

"  I  do  mean  it,"  said  the  Deemster.  "  Let  a  father  treat 
his  children  as  the  world  will  treat  them  when  they  have 
nothing  but  the  world  for  their  father — that's  my  maxim, 
and  I'll  act  up  to  it  with  my  own." 

"That's  hard  treatment,  Thorkell,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
his  eyes  began  to  fill. 

"  Spare  the  rod,  spoil  the  child,"  said  Thorkell. 

"Maybe  you're  right,"  said  the  Bishop  in  a  quavering 
voice,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

But  the  Deemster  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Ewan  and 
Mona  were  removed  to  Ballamona.  There  they  had  no  nurse, 
and  shifted  a  good  deal  for  themselves.  They  ate  oaten  cake 
and  barley  porridge  three  times  a  day,  and  that  was  to  build 
up  their  bone  and  brain  ;  they  were  bathed  in  cold  water 
summer  and  winter,  and  that  was  to  make  them  hardy  ;  they 
wore  frocks  with  low  necks,  and  that  was  to  strengthen  their 
lungs  ;  they  went  to  bed  without  a  light  and  fell  asleep  while 
trembling  in  each  other's  arms,  and  that  was  to  make  them 
brave  and  prevent  them  from  becoming  superstitious. 

If  the  spirit  and  health  of  the  little  ones  did  not  sink  under 
their  Spartan  training,  it  was  because  Nature  was  stronger  than 
custom,  and  because  God  is  very  good  to  the  bruised  hearts  of 
children.  They  did  not  laugh  too  loud  when  the  Deemster 
was  near,  and  they  were  never  seen  to  pull  his  vest,  or  to  tug 
him  by  his  hair,  or  to  ride  across  his  back,  which  was  never 
known  to  stoop  low  for  their  little  legs  to  mount.  The  house 
was  not  much  noisier,   or  dirtier,  or  less  orderly  for  their 

43 


THE   DEEMSTER 

presence ;  they  did  not  fill  it  with  their  voices,  or  tumble  it 
out  of  its  propriety  with  their  busy  fingers,  as  with  Cousin 
Danny's  powerful  assistance  they  had  filled  and  tumbled 
Bishop's  Court,  until  every  room  in  the  comfortable  old  place 
seemed  to  say  to  you  with  a  wink  and  a  nod,  "  A  child  lives 
here ;  this  is  his  own  home,  and  he  is  master  of  the  whole 
house."  But  when  they  stole  away  to  their  own  little  room 
at  the  back,  where  no  fire  burned  lest  they  should  grow 
''  nesh,"  not  all  the  masks  that  were  ever  made  to  make  life 
look  like  a  sorry  tragedy  could  have  hidden  the  joy  that  was 
always  waiting  to  break  out  on  their  little  faces.  There  they 
would  romp  and  laugh  and  crow  and  sing,  and  Ewan  would 
play  at  preaching  with  the  back  of  a  chair  for  a  pulpit,  and 
his  pinafore  for  surplice,  and  Mona  of  the  big  eyes  sitting  on 
the  floor  below  for  choir  and  congregation.  And  if  in  the 
middle  of  their  play  it  happened  that  all  at  once  they  re- 
membered Danny,  then  Ewan's  head  would  fall  aside,  and  his 
look  in  an  instant  be  far  away,  and  Mona's  lower  lip  would 
hang  suddenly,  and  the  sunshine  would  straightway  die  out 
of  her  laughing  face. 

When  the  Bishop  lost  the  Deemster's  children  he  found  a 
great  void  in  his  heart ;  but  little  Danny  troubled  his  big  head 
not  at  all  about  the  change  that  had  taken  place.  He  laughed 
just  as  loud,  and  never  cried  at  all,  and  when  he  awoke  in  the 
morning  and  his  cousins  were  not  there,  their  place  forthwith 
knew  them  no  more.  In  a  vague  way  he  missed  his  playmates, 
but  that  only  meant  that  the  Bishop  had  to  be  his  playmate 
even  more  than  before,  and  the  Bishop  was  nothing  loath. 
Away  they  ran  through  the  copse  together,  these  boon  com- 
panions, and  if  the  Bishop  hid  behind  a  tree,  of  course  Danny 
found  him  ;  and  if  it  was  Danny  that  hid,  of  course  the  Bishop 
searched  high  and  low,  and  never  once  heard  the  merry  titter 
that  came  from  behind  the  gorse  bush  that  was  arm's  length 
away,  until,  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  Danny  leapt  out  on  him 
like  an  avalanche.  They  talked  one  jargon,  too,  for  Danny's 
industrious  tongue  could  not  say  its  w,  and  it  made  an  s  of  its/. 
"  How  many  'heels  has  your  cart  got,  carter.^"  "Sour."  "Very 
srosty  to-day,  master."     '^Well,  then,  come  in  to  the  sire." 

In  a  strange  and  unconscious  way  the  Bishop  developed  a 
sort  of  physical  affinity  with  this  sworn  ally.  When  no  sound 
seemed  to  break  the  silence  he  could  hear  the  little  man's  cry 
shrough  three  stout  stone  walls  and  up  two  flights  of  stairs.     If 

44 


THE   COSY   NEST  AT   BISHOP'S   COURT 

the  child  fell  and  hurt  himself  half  a  mile  from  the  house,  the 
Bishop  at  home  felt  as  if  he  had  himself  dropped  on  a  sharp 
stone  and  cut  his  knee.  If  he  clambered  to  the  top  of  a 
high  wall  that  was  out  of  sight,  the  Bishop  in  his  study  felt 
dizzy. 

But  extraordinary  as  was  this  affinity  of  the  Bishop  and  his 
boy,  the  intercourse  that  subsisted  between  Danny  and  his 
nurse  was  yet  more  marvellous.  The  Bishop  had  merely  a  pre- 
science of  disaster  threatening  his  darling  ;  but  Kerry  seemed, 
by  an  exercise  of  some  nameless  faculty,  to  know  the  child's 
whereabouts  at  any  moment  of  day  or  night.  Half-blind  at 
the  time  of  the  birth  of  little  Ewan,  Kerry  Quayle  had  grown 
stone-blind  since,  and  this  extraordinary  power  was  in  truth 
her  second  sight.  It  was  confined  to  Danny,  her  nursling,  but 
over  his  movements  it  was  an  absolute  gift. 

"  Och,"  she  cried,  leaping  up  from  the  spinning-wheel,  "  the 
wee  craythur's  into  the  chapel,  as  the  savin'  is." 

"  Impossible  ! "  the  Bishop  answered  ;  '^  I've  only  this 
moment  locked  the  door  " 

But  Kerry  and  the  Bishop  went  to  the  chapel  to  search  for 
him,  and  found  the  fugitive,  who  had  clambered  in  through  an 
open  window,  lighting  the  candle  at  the  reading-desk,  after 
washing  his  black  hands  in  the  font. 

"  Aw,  now,"  said  Kerry,  lifting  up  her  hands  and  her  blind 
face  in  horror,  '^  what's  that  it's  saying, '  The  little  hemlock  is 
sister  to  the  big  hemlock  ; '  "  which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that 
the  small  sin  was  akin  to  the  great  sin,  and  that  little  Danny, 
who  had  been  caught  in  an  act  of  sacrilege,  w  ould  one  day  be 
guilty  of  worse. 

"  Nonsense,  woman,  nonsense  ;  a  child  is  but  a  child,"  said 
the  Bishop,  leading  the  delinquent  away. 

That  day — it  was  Thursday  of  Whitsun  week — Convocation 
was  to  be  held  at  Bishop's  Court,  and  the  clergy  had  already 
begun  to  gather  in  the  library  that  looked  west  towards  the 
sea.  To  keep  Danny  out  of  further  mischief  the  Bishop  led 
him  to  his  own  room,  and  there  he  poured  water  into  a  bowl 
and  proceeded  to  bathe  his  eyes,  which  had  latterly  shown 
signs  of  weakness.  To  do  this  he  had  need  to  remove  his 
spectacles,  and  he  set  them  down  on  the  table  by  his  hand. 
Danny  watched  these  proceedings  with  a  roguish  look,  and 
when  the  Bishop's  face  was  in  the  bowl  he  whipped  up  the 
spectacles  and  pushed  them  down  his  neck  between  his  frock 

45 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  his  breast.  With  a  whirr  and  a  pufF  the  Bishop  shook  the 
water  from  his  face  and  dried  it,  and  when  the  lash  comb  had 
tossed  back  his  long  hair  he  stretched  his  hand  out  for  his 
spectacles.  He  could  not  feel  them,  and  when  he  looked  he 
could  not  see  them,  and  then  he  called  on  Danny  to  search 
for  them,  and  straightway  the  rogue  was  on  hands  and  knees 
hunting  in  every  possible  and  impossible  place.  But  Danny 
could  not  find  them,  not  he.  Convocation  was  waiting  for  its 
chief,  but  the  spectacles  could  not  be  found,  and  the  Bishop, 
for  all  bookish  services,  was  blinder  than  a  bat  without  them. 
High  and  low,  up  and  down,  on  every  table,  under  every  paper, 
into  every  pocket,  and  still  no  spectacles.  At  length  the  Bishop 
paused  and  looked  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  the  Uttle  man 
sitting  on  his  haunches  and  tittering  audibly. 

"  Where  are  the  glasses  }  " 

Danny  laughed  very  loud. 

"  Where  are  my  glasses,  Danny  veg  }** 

Danny  veg  laughed  still  louder. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  made  of  an  «,nswer  like  that,  so 
down  on  his  knees  went  the  Bishop  again  to  see  if  the  rogue 
had  hidden  the  spectacles  beneath  the  hearthrug,  or  under 
the  seat  of  the  settle,  or  inside  the  shaving-pot  on  the  hearth. 
And  all  the  time  Danny,  with  his  hands  clasped  under  his 
haunches,  hopped  about  the  room  like  a  frog  with  great 
starry  eyes,  and  crowed  and  laughed  till  his  face  grew  scarlet 
and  the  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 

Blind  Kerry  came  to  say  that  the  gentlemen  wanted  to 
know  when  the  Bishop  would  be  with  them,  as  the  saying 
was ;  and  two  minutes  afterwards  the  Bishop  strode  into  the 
library  through  a  line  of  his  clergy,  who  rose  as  he  entered, 
and  bowed  to  him  in  silence  when  his  tall  figure  bent  slightly 
to  each  of  them  in  turn. 

"  Your  pardon,  gentlemen,  for  this  delay,"  he  said  gravely ; 
and  then  he  settled  himself  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Hardly  had  the  clergy  taken  their  seats  when  the  door  of 
the  room  was  dashed  open  with  a  lordly  bang,  and  into  the 
muggy  room,  made  darker  still  by  twenty  long  black  coats, 
there  shot  a  gleam  of  laughing  sunshine — Danny  himself,  at 
a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump,  with  a  pair  of  spectacles  perched 
insecurely  on  the  sliding  bridge  of  his  diminutive  nose. 

The  Archdeacon  was  there  that  day,  and  when  the  intruder 
had  been  evicted  by  blind  Kerry,  who  came  in  hot  pursuit  of 

46 


THE   COSY   NEST   AT   BISHOP'S   COURT 

him,  he  shook  his  head  and  looked  as  solemn  and  as  wise  as 
his  little  russet  face  would  admit,  and  said — 

"Ah,  my  Lord,  you'll  kill  that  child  with  kindness.  May 
you  never  heap  up  for  yourself  a  bad  harvest !  " 

The  Bishop  made  no  answer,  but  breathed  on  the  restored 
spectacles,  and  rubbed  them  with  his  red  silk  handkerchief. 

"I  hold  with  the  maxim  of  my  son-in-law  the  Deemster," 
the  Archdeacon  continued  :  "  Let  a  child  be  dealt  with  in  his 
father's  house  as  the  world  hereafter  will  deal  with  him." 

"  Nay,  nay,  but  more  gently,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  If  he  is 
a  good  man,  ten  to  one  the  world  will  whip  him — let  him 
remember  his  father's  house  as  a  place  of  love." 

"Ah,  my  Lord,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "but  what  of  the 
injunction  against  the  neglect  of  the  rod  .'* " 

The  Bishop  bent  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

Once  in  a  way  during  these  early  years  the  Bishop  took 
Danny  across  to  Ballamona,  and  then  the  two  little  exiles  in 
their  father's  house,  banished  from  the  place  of  love,  would 
rush  into  the  Bishop's  arms,  Mona  at  his  chin,  Ewan  with 
hands  clasped  about  his  leg  and  flaxen  head  against  the  great 
seals  that  hung  from  his  fob- pocket.  But  as  for  Dainiy  and 
his  cousins,  and  the  cousins  and  Danny,  they  usually  stood 
awhile  and  inspected  each  other  with  that  solemnity  and  aloof- 
ness which  is  one  of  the  phenomena  of  child  manners,  and 
then,  when  the  reserve  of  the  three  hard  little  faces  had  been 
softened  by  a  smile,  they  would  forthwith  rush  at  each  other 
with  mighty  clenched  fists  and  pitch  into  one  another  for  five 
minutes  together,  amid  a  chorus  of  squeals.  In  this  form  of 
salutation  Danny  was  never  known  to  fail,  and  as  he  was  too 
much  of  a  man  to  limit  his  greeting  to  Ewan,  he  always  pitched 
into  Mona  with  the  same  masculine  impartiality. 

But  the  time  came  again  when  the  salutation  was  unneces- 
sary, for  they  were  sent  to  school  together,  and  they  saw  each 
other  daily.  There  was  only  one  school  to  which  they  could 
be  sent,  and  that  was  the  parish  school,  the  same  that  was 
taught  by  James  Quirk,  who  "  could  not  divide  his  syllables," 
according  to  the  account  of  Jabez  Gawne,  the  tailor. 

The  parishioners  had  built  their  new  schoolhouse  near  the 
church,  and  it  lay  about  midway  between  Bishop's  Court  and 
Ballamona.  It  was  also  about  half-way  down  the  road  that 
led  to  the  sea,  and  that  was  a  proximity  of  never-ending  de- 
light.   After  school  on  the  long  summer  evenings,  the  scholars 

47 


THE   DEEMSTER 

would  troop  down  to  the  shore  in  one  tumultuous  company,  the 
son  of  the  Bishop  with  the  son  of  the  cobbler,  the  Deemster's 
little  girl  with  the  big  girl  of  Jabez,  who  sent  his  child  on 
charity.  Ragged  and  well  clad,  clean  and  dirty,  and  the 
biggest  lad  "  rigging  "  the  smallest,  and  not  caring  a  ha'porth 
if  his  name  was  the  name  of  the  Deemster  or  the  name  of 
Billy  the  Gawk.  Hand  in  hand,  Danny  and  Ewan,  with  Mona 
between,  would  skip  and  caper  along  the  sands  down  to  where 
the  red  rocks  of  the  Head  jutted  out  into  the  sea  and  bounded 
the  universe ;  Mona  prattling  and  singing,  shaking  out  her 
wavy  hair  to  the  wind,  dragging  Danny  aside  to  look  at  a  sea- 
weed, and  pulling  Ewan  to  look  at  a  shell,  tripping  down  to 
the  water's  edge,  until  the  big  bearded  waves  touched  her 
boots,  and  then  back  once  more  with  a  half-frightened,  half- 
affected,  laughter-loaded  scream.  Then  the  boys  would  strip 
and  bathe,  and  Mona,  being  only  a  woman,  would  mind  the 
men's  clothes,  or  they  would  shout  all  together  at  the  gulls,  and 
Danny  would  mock  Mother  Carey's  chickens  and  catch  the 
doleful  cry  of  the  cormorant,  and  pelt  with  pebbles  the  long- 
necked  bird  as  it  sat  on  the  rocks ;  or  he  would  clamber  up 
over  the  slippery  seaweed,  across  the  sharp  slate  ribs  to  where 
the  sea  pinks  grew  in  the  corries  and  the  sea  duck  laid  her 
eggs,  and  sing  out  from  some  dizzy  height  to  where  Ewan  held 
his  breath  below  and  Mona  stood  crying  and  trembling  on 
the  sands. 

What  times  for  Danny !  how  the  lad  seemed  to  swell  and 
grow  every  day  of  life  !  Before  he  was  ten  he  had  outgrown 
Ewan  by  half  an  inch,  and  gone  through  a  stand-up  fight  with 
every  ruffian  under  twelve.  Then  down  among  the  fishermen 
on  the  beach,  what  sport !  Knocking  about  among  the  boats, 
pulling  at  the  oars  like  mad,  or  tugging  at  the  sheets,  baling  out 
and  pushing  off,  and  riding  away  over  the  white  breakers  and 
shouting  for  pure  devilment  above  the  plash  of  the  water. 

^' Aw,  man,  it's  all  for  the  happy  the  lad  feels  inside,"  said 
Billy  Quilleash. 

Danny  and  Billy  Quilleash  were  sworn  chums,  and  the  little 
sand-boy  learned  all  the  old  salt's  racy  sayings,  and  went  home 
to  Bishop's  Court  and  fired  them  off  at  his  father. 

"  There's  a  storm  coming,"  the  Bishop  said  one  day,  looking 
up  at  the  scudding  clouds.  "  Ay,  ay,"  said  Danny,  with  his 
small  eye  askew,  "  the  long  cat's  tail  was  going  off  at  a  slant 
awhile  ago,  and  now  the  round  thick  skate  yonder  is  hanging 

48 


THE   COSY  NEST  AT   BISHOP'S   COURT 

mortal  low."  "The  wind  is  rising,"  the  Bishop  said  on  an- 
other occasion.  "  Ay,  Davy's  putting  on  the  coppers  for  the 
parson/'  said  the  young  heretic. 

School,  too,  was  only  another  playground  to  Danny,  a  little 
less  tumultuous  but  no  less  delightful  than  the  shore.  The 
schoolmastei'  had  grown  very  deaf  since  the  days  when  the 
Bishop  pronounced  him  qualified  to  teach  an  English  school. 
This  deafness  he  did  his  best  to  conceal,  for  he  had  a  lively  re- 
collection of  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  parishioners,  and  he  had 
a  natural  unwillingness  to  lose  his  bread  and  butter.  But  his 
scholars  were  not  easily  hoodwinked,  and  Danny,  the  daring 
young  dog,  would  play  on  the  master's  infirmity.  "  Spell  me 
the  word  arithmetic,"  the  schoolmaster  might  ask  when  the 
boys  were  ranged  about  his  desk  in  class.  And  Danny  would 
answer  with  a  face  of  tragic  solemnity,  "  Twice  one  are  two, 
twice  two  are  four."  "  Very  good,"  the  schoolmaster  would 
reply.  "  And  now,  sir,  repeat  me  your  multiplication  table — 
twice  times."  And  then,  while  the  master  held  his  head  aside, 
as  if  in  the  act  of  intent  listening,  and  the  other  boys  twisted 
their  faces  to  hide  their  grins  or  sniggered  openly,  Danny, 
still  with  the  face  of  a  judge,  would  repeat  a  paraphrase  of 
the  familiar  little  hymn,  "Jemmy  was  a  Welshman,  Jemmy 

was  a  thief,  Jemmy "     "  Don't  speak  so  fast,  sir ;  say  your 

figures  more  plainly,"  the  schoolmaster  would  interrupt.  And 
Danny  would  begin  again  with  a  more  explicit  enunciation, 

"Jemmy  Quirk  was  a  Welshman,  Jemmy "     Then  the 

sniggers  and  the  snorts  would  rise  to  a  tumult.  And  down 
would  come  the  master's  cane  on  the  desk.  "  Silence,  boys, 
and  let  the  boy  say  his  table.  Some  of  you  big  lads  might 
take  example  by  him,  and  be  none  the  worse.  Go  on,  Daniel 
— you  are  quite  right  so  far — twice  five  are  ten,  twice  six " 

There  was  one  lad  in  the  school  who  could  not  see  the 
humour  of  the  situation,  a  slim,  quiet  boy,  only  a  little  older 
than  Danny,  but  a  long  way  ahead  of  him  in  learning,  and 
one  evening  this  solemn  youngster  hung  behind  when  school 
was  breaking  up,  and  blurted  out  the  mischief  to  the  school- 
master. He  did  not  get  the  reception  he  expected,  for  in 
dire  wrath  at  the  imputation  that  he  was  deaf,  Mr.  Quirk 
birched  the  informant  soundly.  Nor  did  the  reward  of  his 
treachery  end  with  birching.  It  did  not  take  half-an-hour 
for  the  report  of  both  birching  and  treachery  to  travel  by 
that  swiftest  of  telephones,  the  schoolboy  tongue,  through 

49 


THE  DEEMSTER 

that  widest  of  kingdoms,  the  world  of  school,  and  the  same 
evening,  while  Mona,  on  her  way  home,  was  gathering  the 
blue-bells  that  grew  on  the  lea  of  the  yellow-tipped  gorse, 
and  Ewan  was  chasing  the  humming-bee  through  the  hot 
air  that  was  thick  with  midges,  Danny,  with  a  face  as  white 
as  a  haddock,  was  striding  alone  by  a  long  circuit  across  the 
moor,  to  where  a  cottage  stood  by  the  path  across  the  Head. 
There  he  bounded  in  at  the  porch,  caught  a  boy  by  the  coat, 
dragged  him  into  the  road,  pummelled  him  with  silent  vigour, 
while  the  lad  bellowed  and  struggled  to  escape. 

In  another  instant,  an  old  woman  hobbled  out  of  the  cottage 
on  a  stick,  and  with  that  weapon  she  made  for  Danny,  and 
gave  him  sundry  hard  raps  on  the  back  and  head. 

"Och,  the  craythur,"  she  cried,  "get  off  with  ye — the 
damon — extraordinary — would  the  Lord  think  it  now — it's  in 
the  breed  of  ye — get  off,  or  Fll  break  every  bone  in  your  skin." 

Danny  paid  as  little  heed  to  the  old  woman's  blows  as  to 
her  threats,  and  was  up  with  his  fist  for  the  twentieth  time 
to  come  down  on  the  craven  traitor  who  bellowed  in  his  grip, 
when  all  at  once  a  horse's  feet  were  tramping  about  their 
limbs  where  they  struggled  in  the  road,  and  a  stern  voice 
from  over  their  heads  shouted,  "  Stop,  stop,  or  must  I  bring 
the  whip  across  your  flanks  }  " 

It  was  the  Deemster.  Danny  fell  aside  on  the  right  of 
the  horse,  and  the  old  woman  and  the  boy  on  the  left. 

"  What  does  this  mean  }  "  asked  the  Deemster,  turning  to 
his  nephew;  but  Danny  stood  there  panting,  his  eyes  like 
fire,  his  fists  clenched,  his  knuckles  standing  out  like  ribs  of 
steel,  and  he  made  no  answer. 

"  Who  is  this  blubbering  coward  }  "  asked  the  Deemster, 
pointing  with  a  contemptuous  gesture  to  the  boy  half  hidden 
by  the  old  woman's  dress. 

"  Coward,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  woman.     "  Coward,  you  say  }  '* 

''Who  is  the  brat,  Mrs.  Kerruish.'*"  said  the  Deemster 
sharply. 

At  that  Mrs.  Kerruish,  for  it  was  she,  pulled  the  boy  from 
behind  her,  plucked  off  his  hat,  ran  her  wrinkled  hand  over 
his  forehead  to  his  hair,  and  held  up  his  face  and  said — 

"  Look  at  him.  Deemster ;  look  at  him.  You  don't  come 
this  way  often,  but  look  at  him  while  you're  here.  Did  you 
ever  see  his  picture  before  ?  Never  }  Never  see  a  face  like 
that  ?     No  ?     Not  when  you  look  in  the  glass,  Deemster  ?  " 

50 


DANNY,   THE   MADCAP 

"  Get  into  the  house,  woman,"  said  the  Deemster,  in  a  low, 
thick  tone,  and,  so  saying,  he  put  the  spurs  to  his  horse. 

"As  for  this  young  demon  here,"  said  the  old  woman, 
pushing  the  boy  back  and  pointing  with  her  stick  at  Danny, 
"he'll  have  his  heel  on  your  neck  yet.  Deemster — and  re- 
member the  word  I'm  saying." 


CHAPTER   VII 

DANNY,    THE    MADCAP 

Now  Danny  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  Deemster,  and 
nothing  that  he  could  do  was  amiss.  The  spice  of  mischief 
in  the  lad  made  him  the  darling  of  the  Deemster's  heart. 
His  own  son  disappointed  the  Deemster.  He  seemed  to  have 
no  joy  in  him.  Ewan  was  quiet,  and  his  father  thought  him 
a  milksop.  There  was  more  than  one  sense  in  which  the 
Deemster  was  an  indifferent  judge  of  his  species,  but  he  found 
no  difficulty  in  comprehending  the  idiosyncrasy  of  his  brother's 
son.  Over  the  pathetic  story  of  Danny's  maddest  prank  or 
the  last  mournful  account  of  his  daring  devilry,  the  Deemster 
would  chuckle  and  shake,  and  roll  his  head  between  his 
shoulders,  then  give  the  boy  a  slap  on  his  hindmost  part, 
accompanied  by  a  lusty  name,  and  finally  rummage  for  some- 
thing in  his  pocket,  and  smuggle  that  something  into  the 
young  rascal's  palm. 

Danny  would  be  about  fifteen  years  of  age — a  lump  of  a 
lad,  and  therefore  out  of  the  leading-strings  of  his  nurse, 
Kerry  Quayle — when  he  concocted  a  most  audacious  scheme, 
whereof  Kerry  was  the  chief  subject  and  victim.  This  had 
nothing  less  for  its  aim  and  object  than  to  get  Kerry  married 
to  Hommy-beg — the  blind  woman  to  the  deaf  man.  Now 
Hommy  was  a  gaunt,  raw-boned  man,  dressed  in  a  rough  blue 
jacket  and  a  short  grey  petticoat.  His  full  and  proper  name 
was  now  quite  lost.  He  was  known  as  Hommy-beg,  some- 
times as  Hommy-beg-Bill,  a  name  which  at  once  embodied 
a  playful  allusion  to  his  great  pliysique,  and  a  certain  genea- 
logical record  in  showing  that  he  was  little  Tom,  the  son  of 
Bill.  Though  scarcely  short  of  stone  deaf,  he  was  musical. 
He  played  two  instruments,  the  fiddle  and  the  voice.     The 

51 


THE   DEEMSTER 

foraier  squeaked  like  a  rasp,  and  the  latter  thundered  like 
a  fog-horn.  Away  to  Ballamona  Master  Danny  went,  9nd 
found  Hommy-beg  thinning  a  bed  of  peonies. 

"Aw,  man,  the  terrible  fond  she  is  of  the  like  o'  that 
swate  flower,"  said  the  young  rogue,  who  spoke  the  home- 
spun to  the  life.  "Aw,  dear,  the  way  she  smells  at  them 
when  you  bring  them  up  for  the  Bishop  ! " 

"  What,  ould  Kerry  .''  Smelling,  is  it  ?  And  never  a  whift 
of  a  smell  at  the  breed  o'  them  !  " 

"Och  no,  it's  not  the  flowers,  it's  the  man,  the  man, 
Hommy." 

"  That'll  do,  that'll  do.     And  blind,  too  !    Well,  well." 

"  But  the  swate  temper  that's  at  her,  Hommy  !  And  the 
coaxing  and  coaxing  of  her !  And,  man  alive,  the  fond  she 
is  of  you  !  AJine  sort  of  a  man  anyways,  and  A  rael  good  voice 
at  him.     Aw,  extraordinary,  extraordinary." 

"  D'ye  raely  mane  it  .^^ " 

"  Mane  it }  Aw,  w  ell,  well,  and  who  but  you  doesn't 
know  it,  Hommy  ?  " 

"  iVstonishing,  astonishing  !  " 

"  Come  up  to  the  Coort  and  take  a  cup  o'  tay  with  her." 

Hommy-beg  scratched  his  head.  "  Is  it  raely  true,  Danny 
veg.?" 

"  I'll  lave  it  with  you,  Hommy,"  said  Danny,  and  straight- 
way the  young  rascal  went  back  to  Bishop's  Court,  lighted 
upon  blind  Kerry,  and  entered  upon  a  glowing  description 
of  the  personal  charms  of  Hommy-beg. 

"  Aw,  the  good-looking  he  is,  astonishing !  My  gough  ! 
You  should  see  him  in  his  Sunday  hat,  or  maybe  with  a  trill 
on  his  shirt,  and  smiling,  and  all  to  that !  Terrible  dacent 
sort  is  Hommy-beg  ! " 

"  What,  the  loblolly-boy  in  the  petticoat }  " 

"  Aw,  but  the  tender-hearted  he  is  for  all,  and,  bless  me, 
Kerry,  woman,  the  swate  he  is  on  you  ! " 

"What,  the  ould  red-head  that  comes  singing,  as  the 
saying  is  }  " 

"  Aw,  no,  woman,  but  as  black  as  the  raven,  and  the  way 
he  looks  sorrowful  like  when  he  comes  beside  of  you.  You 
wouldn't  believe  it !  And,  bless  me,  the  rael  bad  he  is  to 
come  up  to  the  Coort  and  take  a  cup  of  tay  with  you,  and 
the  like  o'  that." 

"  Do  you  raely  mane  it,  Danny,  my  chree  ?  " 

52 


DANNY,   THE   MADCAP 

The  very  next  day  Hommy-beg  arrived  at  the  kitchen 
door  of  Bishop's  Court  in  his  Sunday  hat^  in  the  shirt  with 
the  frill  to  it,  and  with  a  peony  as  big  as  a  March  cabbage 
in  his  fist.  The  end  of  it  all  was  that  Kerry  and  Hommy- 
beg  were  forthwith  asked  in  church.  Wild  as  the  freak  was 
that  made  the  deaf  man  and  the  blind  woman  man  and  wife, 
their  marriage  was  none  the  less  happy  for  their  infirmities. 

The  Deemster  heard  of  the  plot  on  his  way  to  church  on 
Sunday  morning,  and  he  laughed  in  his  throat  all  through  the 
service,  and  when  the  first  of  the  askings  was  solenmly  pro- 
claimed from  the  reading-desk,  he  tittered  audibly  in  his 
pew.  "  Danny  was  tired  of  the  woman's  second  sight — found 
it  inconvenient,  very — wanted  to  be  rid  of  her — good!"  he 
chuckled.  But  not  long  afterwards  he  enjoyed  a  jest  that 
was  yet  more  to  his  taste ;  for  his  own  prime  butt  of  ridicule, 
the  Church  itself,  was  then  the  victim. 

It  was  an  old  Manx  custom  that  on  Christmas  Eve  the  church 
should  be  given  up  to  the  people  for  the  singing  of  their  native 
carols  or  carvals.  The  curious  service  was  known  as  Oiel 
Verree  (the  eve  of  Mary),  and  at  every  such  service  for  the 
last  twenty  years  Hommy-beg,  the  gardener,  and  Mr.  James 
Quirk,  the  schoolmaster,  had  officiated  as  singers  in  the  strange 
Manx  ritual.  Great  had  hitherto  been  the  rivalry  between 
these  musical  celebrities,  but  word  had  gone  round  the  town 
that  at  length  their  eiForts  were  to  be  combined  in  a  carol 
which  they  were  to  sing  together.  Dan  had  effected  this 
extraordinary  combination  of  talent  by  a  plot  which  was 
expected  to  add  largely  to  the  amusement  of  the  listeners. 

Hommy-beg  could  not  read  a  syllable,  yet  he  never  would 
sing  his  carol  without  having  the  printed  copy  of  it  in  his  hand. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Quirk,  the  schoolmaster,  could  read,  but,  as  we 
have  seen,  he  resembled  Hommy-beg  in  being  almost  stone- 
deaf.  Each  could  hear  himself  sing,  but  neither  could  hear 
another. 

And  now  for  the  plot.  Master  Dan  called  on  the  gardener 
at  his  cottage  on  the  Brew  on  the  morning  of  the  day  before 
Christmas  day,  and  "  Hommy,"  said  he,  "  it's  morthal  strange 
the  way  a  man  of  your  common  sense  can't  see  that  you'd 
wallop  that  squeaking  ould  Jemmy  Quirk  in  a  jiffy  if  you'd  only 
consent  to  sing  a  ballad  along  of  him.  Bless  me,  man  alive, 
it's  then  they'd  be  seeing  what  a  weak,  ould  cracked  pot  of  a 
voice  is  at  him." 

53 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Hommy-beg's  face  began  to  wear  a  smile  of  benevolent 
condescension.  Observing  his  advantage,  the  young  rascal 
continued,  "  Do  it  at  the  Oiel  Verree  to-night,  Hommy. 
He'll  sing  his  treble,  and  you'll  sing  seconds  to  him." 

It  was  an  unlucky  remark.  The  gardener  frowned  austerely. 
"  Me  sing  seconds  to  the  craythur  }     No  ;  never  !  " 

Dan  explained  to  Hommy-beg,  with  a  world  of  abject  apolo- 
gies, that  there  was  a  sense  in  which  seconds  meant  firsts,  and 
at  length  the  gardener  was  mollified,  and  consented  to  the 
proposal ;  but  one  idea  was  firmly  rooted  in  his  mind — namely, 
that  if  he  was  to  sing  a  carol  with  the  schoolmaster,  he  must 
take  the  best  of  care  to  sing  his  loudest,  in  order  to  drown  at 
once  the  voice  of  his  rival,  and  the  bare  notion  that  it  was  he 
who  was  singing  seconds  to  such  a  poor  creature  as  that. 

Then  Master  Danny  trotted  off  to  the  schoolhouse,  where  he 
was  now  no  longer  a  scholar,  and  consequently  enjoyed  an  old 
boy's  privilege  of  approaching  the  master  on  equal  terms,  and 
"  Jemmy,"  he  said,  "it's  morthal  strange  the  way  a  man  of  your 
common  sense  can't  see  that  you'd  wallop  that  squeaking  old 
Hommy-beg  in  a  jiffy  if  you'd  only  consent  to  sing  a  ballad 
along  of  him.  Do  it  at  the  Oiel  Verree  to-night.  Jemmy,  and 
bless  me  !  that's  the  time  they'll  be  seeing  what  a  weak,  ould 
crackpot  of  a  voice  is  at  the  craythur." 

The  schoolmaster  fell  even  an  easier  prey  to  the  plot  than 
the  gardener  had  been.  A  carol  was  selected ;  it  was  to  be 
the  ancient  Manx  carol  on  the  bad  women  mentioned  in  the 
Bible  as  having  (from  Eve  downward)  brought  evil  on  mankind. 

Now,  Hommy-beg  kept  his  carols  pinned  against  the  walls 
of  his  cottage.  The  "  Bad  Women  "  was  the  carol  which  was 
pinned  above  the  mantelpiece  just  under  the  pendulum  of  the 
clock  with  the  facetious  face.  It  resembled  the  other  prints 
in  being  worn,  crumpled,  and  dirty ;  but  Hommy-beg  knew 
it  by  its  position,  and  he  could  distinguish  every  other  carol 
by  its  place  on  his  walls. 

Danny  had  somehow  got  a  "skute"  into  this  literary  mystery, 
and  after  arranging  with  the  schoolmaster  the  carol  that  was  to 
be  sung,  he  watched  Hommy-beg  out  of  his  cottage,  and  then 
went  into  it  under  pretence  of  a  friendly  call  upon  blind  Kerry. 
Before  he  left  the  cottage  he  had  taken  down  the  carol  that 
had  been  pinned  above  the  mantelpiece  and  fixed  up  another 
in  place  of  it  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  The  substi- 
tuted carol  happened,  oddly  enough,  to  be  a  second  copy  of  the 

54 


DANNY,   THE   MADCAP 

carol  on  ''  Bad  Women,"  with  this  radical  difference  :  the  copji 
taken  from  under  the  clock  was  the  version  of  the  carol  in 
English,  and  the  copy  put  up  was  the  version  in  Manx. 
Towards  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  church  bells  began  to 
ring,  and  Hommy-beg  looked  at  the  clock,  took  the  carol  from 
under  the  pendulum,  put  on  his  best  petticoat,  and  went  off 
to  church. 

Now,  there  were  to  be  seasonable  rejoicings  at  the  Court 
on  the  morrow,  and  Kerry  had  gone  over  to  help  at  the  Christ- 
mas preparations.  Ewan  and  Mona  had  always  spent  their 
Christmas  at  Bishop's  Court  since  the  day  when  they  left  it  as 
children.  That  night  they  had  arrived  as  usual,  and  after 
they  had  spent  some  hours  with  Danny  in  dressing  the  house 
in  a  green  and  red  garment  of  hibbin  and  hoUin,  the  Bishop 
had  turned  them  off  to  bed.  Danny's  bedroom  was  the  little 
crib  over  the  library,  and  Ewan's  was  the  room  over  that.  All 
three  bade  the  Bishop  good-night  and  went  into  their  rooms. 
But  Danny  did  not  go  to  bed ;  he  listened  until  he  heard  the 
Bishop  in  the  library  twisting  his  chair  and  stirring  the  peats, 
and  then  he  whipped  off  his  boots  and  crept  upstairs  to  Ewan's 
room.  There  in  bated  breath  he  told  of  the  great  sport  that 
was  to  come  off  at  the  Oiel  Verree,  announced  his  intention 
of  going,  and  urged  Ewan  to  go  with  him.  They  could  just 
jump  through  the  little  window  of  his  room  and  light  on  the 
soft  grass  by  the  library  wall,  and  get  in  again  by  the  same 
easy  means.  No  one  would  know  that  they  had  been  out, 
and  what  high  jinks  they  must  have  !  But  no,  Ewan  was  not 
to  be  persuaded,  and  Danny  set  off  alone. 

Hommy-beg  did  not  reach  the  church  until  the  parson's 
sermon  was  almost  over.  Prayers  had  been  said  in  a  thin 
congregation,  but  no  sooner  were  they  done  than  crowds  of 
young  men  and  maidens  trooped  down  the  aisles.  The  young 
women  went  up  into  the  gallery,  and  from  that  elevation 
they  shot  down  at  their  bachelor  friends  large  handfuls  of 
peas.  To  what  ancient  spirit  of  usage,  beyond  the  ancient 
spirit  of  mischief,  the  strange  practice  was  due,  we  must  be 
content  to  leave,  as  a  solemn  problem,  to  the  learned  and 
curious  antiquaries.  Nearly  everybody  carried  a  candle,  and 
the  candles  of  the  young  women  were  adorned  with  a  red 
ribbon  or  rosette. 

In  passing  out  of  the  church  the  parson  came  face  to  face 
with  Hommy-beg,  who  was  pushing  his  way  up  the  aisle 

55 


THE   DEEMSTER 

The  expression  on  his  face  was  not  at  the  moment  one  of 
pecuUar  grace,  and  he  stopped  the  gardener  and  said  sharply 
in  his  ear,  "  Mind  you  see  that  all  is  done  in  decency  and 
order,  and  that  you  close  my  church  before  midnight." 

"Aw,  but  the  church  is  the  people's,  I'm  thinkin',"  said 
Hommy-beg,  with  a  shake  of  his  tousled  head. 

''The  people  are  as  ignorant  as  goats,"  said  the  parson 
angrily. 

"  Aw,  well,  and  you're  their  shepherd,  so  just  make  sheeps 
of  them,"  said  Hommy-beg,  and  he  pushed  on. 

Danny  was  there  by  this  time,  and,  with  a  face  of  mighty 
solemnity,  he  sat  on  the  right  of  Hommy-beg,  and  held  a 
candle  in  his  left  hand.  When  everything  was  understood 
to  be  ready,  and  Will-as-Thorn,  the  clerk,  had  taken  his 
station  inside  the  communion  rail,  the  business  of  the  Oiel 
Verree  began.  First  one  man  got  up  and  sang  a  carol  in 
English ;  then  another  sang  a  Manx  carol.  But  the  great 
event  of  the  night  was  to  be  the  carol  sung  by  the  sworn 
enemies  and  rivals,  Hommy-beg  and  Mr.  James  Quirk. 

At  last  the  time  came  for  these  worthies.  They  rose  from 
opposite  sides  of  the  church,  eyed  each  other  with  severe 
looks,  stepped  out  of  their  pews  and  walked  down  the  aisle 
to  the  door  of  the  porch.  Then  they  turned  about  in  silence, 
and,  standing  side  by  side,  faced  the  communion. 

The  tittering  in  the  gallery  and  whispering  in  the  body 
were  audible  to  all  except  the  persons  who  were  the  cause 
of  both.  "Hush,  hush,  man  alive,  that's  him,  that's  him." 
"Bless  me,  look  at  Hommy-beg  and  the  petticut,  and  the 
handkercher  pinnin'  round  his  throat."  "Aw,  dear,  it's  what 
he's  used  of."     "A  regular  Punch  and  Judy." 

Danny  was  exerting  himself  at  that  moment  to  keep  order 
and  silence.     "  Hush,  man,  let  them  make  a  start  for  all." 

The  carol  the  rivals  were  about  to  sing  contained  some 
thirty  verses.  It  was  an  ancient  usage  that  after  each  verse 
the  carol  singers  should  take  a  long  stride  towards  the  com- 
munion. By  the  time  the  carol  of  "  Bad  Women  "  came  to 
an  end  the  carol-singers  must,  therefore,  be  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  church. 

There  was  now  a  sublime  scorn  printed  on  the  features 
of  Mr.  Quirk.  As  for  Hommy-beg,  he  looked,  at  this  last 
instant,  like  a  man  who  was  rather  sorry  than  otherwise  foi 
his  rash  adversary. 

5Q 


DANNY,   THE   MADCAP 

"  The  rermantic  they're  looking/'  whispered  a  girl  in  the 
gallery  to  the  giggling  companion  beside  her. 

Expectation  was  at  its  highest  when  Hommy-beg  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  brought  out  the  printed  copy 
of  the  carol.  Hommy  unfolded  it,  glanced  at  it  with  the  air 
of  a  conductor  taking  a  final  look  at  his  score,  nodded  his 
head  at  it  as  if  in  approval,  and  then,  with  a  magnanimous 
gesture,  held  it  between  himself  and  Mr.  Quirk.  The  school- 
master in  turn  glanced  at  it,  glanced  again,  glanced  a  third 
time  at  the  paper,  and  up  into  the  face  of  Hommy-beg. 

Anxiety  was  now  on  tiptoe.  "Hush,  d'ye  hear,  hush," 
whispered  Danny  from  his  pew ;  "  hush,  man,  or  it's  spoiling 
it  all  you'll  be,  for  sure." 

At  the  moment  when  Mr.  Quirk  glanced  into  the  face  of 
Hommy-beg  there  was  a  smile  on  that  countenance,  Mr. 
Quirk  mistook  that  smile.  He  imagined  he  saw  a  trick. 
The  schoolmaster  could  read,  and  he  perceived  that  the  carol 
which  the  gardener  held  out  to  him  was  not  the  carol  for 
which  he  had  been  told  by  Master  Danny  to  prepare.  They 
were,  by  arrangement,  to  have  sung  the  English  version  of 
"Bad  Women."  This  was  the  Manx  version,  and  though 
the  metre  was  the  same,  it  was  always  sung  to  a  different 
tune.  Ah  !  Mr.  Quirk  understood  it  all !  The  monster  wanted 
to  show  that  he,  James  Quirk,  schoolmaster,  could  only  sing 
one  carol ;  but,  as  sure  as  his  name  was  Jemmy,  he  would  be 
equal  with  him !  He  could  sing  this  Manx  version,  and  he 
would.      It  was  now  Mr.  Quirk's  turn  to  smile. 

"  Aw,  look  at  them — the  two  of  them — grinnin'  together 
like  a  pair  of  old  gurgoils  on  the  steeple  ! " 

At  a  motion  of  the  gardener's  hand,  intended  to  beat  the 
time,  the  singers  began.  Hommy-beg  sang  the  carol  agreed 
upon — the  English  version  of  "  Bad  Women."  Mr.  Quirk  sang 
the  carol  they  held  in  their  hands — the  Manx  version  of  "Bad 
Women."  Neither  heard  the  other,  and  to  dispel  the  bare 
notion  that  either  was  singing  seconds,  each  bawled  at  the  ut- 
most reach  of  his  lung  power.    To  one  tune  Hommy-beg  sa  ng — ■ 

"  Thus  from  the  days  of  Adam 
Her  mischief  you  may  trace." 

And  to  another  Mr.  Quirk  sang — 

"  She  ish  va'n  voir  ain  ooilley 
Son  v'ee  da  A<lam  ben." 
5  57 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Such  laughter  !  How  the  young  women  in  the  gallerj'^  lay 
back  in  their  seats  with  hysterical  shrieks !  How  the  young 
fellows  in  the  body  made  the  sacred  edifice  ring  with  guffaws  ! 
But  the  singers,  with  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  paper, 
heard  nothing  but  each  his  own  voice. 

Three  verses  had  been  sung,  and  three  strides  made  towards 
the  communion,  when  suddenly  the  laughter  and  shouting  -jf 
the  people  ceased.  All  eyes  had  turned  towards  the  porch. 
There  the  Bishop  stood,  with  blank  amazement  printed  on  his 
face,  his  head  bare,  and  one  hand  on  the  half-opened  door. 

If  a  spectre  had  appeared  the  consternation  had  scarcely 
been  greater.  Danny  had  been  rolling  in  his  pew  with  un- 
constrained laughter,  but  at  the  sight  of  the  Bishop  his  candle 
fell  from  his  hand  and  sputtered  on  the  book  rail.  The  Bishop 
turned  about,  and  before  the  people  had  recovered  from  their 
surprise  he  was  gone.  At  the  next  moment  everybody  got  up 
without  a  word  and  left  the  church.  In  two  minutes  more 
not  a  soul  remained  except  Hommy-beg  and  Mr.  Jemmy 
Quirk,  who,  with  eyes  riveted  on  the  printed  carol  in  their 
hands,  still  sang  lustily,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  they  had 
no  audience. 

When  Danny  left  the  church  that  night  it  was  through  the 
lancet  window  of  the  vestry.  Dropping  on  the  turf  at  the 
north-east  of  the  church,  he  leapt  the  wall  that  divided  the 
churchyard  from  the  meadow  on  the  north,  and  struck  upon 
a  path  that  went  round  to  Bishop's  Court  by  way  of  the  cliff 
head.  The  path  was  a  long  one,  but  it  was  lonesome,  and  its 
lonesomeness  was  no  small  merit  in  Danny's  view  that  night. 
The  Bishop  must  return  to  the  Court  by  the  highway  through 
the  village,  and  the  Bishop  must  be  in  front  of  him. 

The  night  was  dark  and  dumb,  and,  laden  with  salt  scent, 
the  dank  vapour  floated  up  from  the  sea.  Danny  walked 
quickly.  The  deep  boom  of  the  waters  rolling  on  the  sand 
below  came  up  to  him  through  the  dense  air.  Late  as  was  the 
hour,  he  could  hear  the  little  sand-piper  screaming  at  Orris 
Head.  The  sea-swallow  shot  over  him  too,  with  its  low  mourn- 
ful cry.  Save  for  these  sounds,  and  the  quick  beat  of  his  own 
feet,  all  was  still  around  him. 

Beneath  his  stubborn  bit  of  scepticism  Danny  was  super- 
stitious. He  was  full  to  the  throat  of  fairy  lore  and  stories  of 
witchcraft.  He  had  learned  both  from  old  Billy  Quilleash 
and  his  mates  as  they  sat  barking  their  nets  on  the  shore. 

58 


DANNY,  THE   MADCAP 

And  that  night  the  ghostly  memories  would  arise,  do  what  he 
might  to  keep  them  down.  To  banish  them  Danny  began 
to  whistle,  and,  failing  to  enliven  himself  much  by  that  exer- 
cise, he  began  to  sing.  His  selection  of  a  song  was  not  the 
happiest  under  the  circumstances.  It  was  the  doleful  ballad 
of  ''  Myle  Charaine."  Danny  sang  it  in  Manx,  but  here  is  a 
stave  of  it  in  English — 

**  Oh,  Myle  Charaine,  where  got  you  your  gold  7 
Lone,  lone,  you  have  left  me  here  ; 
Oh,  not  in  the  Curragh,  deep  under  the  mould- 
Lone,  lone,  and  void  of  cheer." 

He  had  come  up  to  Bishop's  Court  on  the  sea  front,  and 
there  the  Bishop's  library  stood  out  from  the  body  of  the  old 
house,  between  the  chapel  porch  and  the  kitchen  offices.  A 
light  was  in  the  library,  and  passing  over  the  soft  grass  with 
the  soft  flight  of  a  lapwing,  Danny  peered  in  at  the  curtainless 
window.  The  familiar  room  was  empty.  On  the  hearth  a 
turf  fire  burned  without  flame,  and  bathed  the  book-encased 
walls  in  a  rosy  red.  The  Bishop's  easy  chair,  in  its  white  cover- 
ing, stood  at  one  side  of  the  ingle,  his  slippers  in  front  of  it ; 
and  beside  it,  on  the  little  three-legged  mahogany  table,  were 
the  ink-horn  and  the  long  quill,  and  the  Bishop's  four-cornered 
library  cap.  The  door  stood  ajar,  and  the  two  candles  in  the 
two  brass  brackets  at  each  side  of  the  fire-place  were  tipped  by 
their  extinguishers. 

The  Bishop  had  not  returned  ;  but  the  faint  smile  of  triumph 
which  at  that  thought  rested  like  a  ray  of  pale  sunshine  on 
Danny's  face  suddenly  vanished.  In  a  lad's  vague  way  Danny 
now  realised  that  it  had  not  been  merely  because  the  night 
was  dark  and  the  road  lonely  that  he  had  whistled  and  sung. 
He  hung  his  head  where  he  stood  in  the  night,  and  as  if  by  an 
involuntary  movement  he  lifted  his  cap  and  fumbled  it. 

At  the  next  instant  Danny  was  clambering  up  the  angle  of 
the  wall  to  the  lead  flat  that  covered  the  projecting  part  of  the 
.ibrary.  From  this  lead  flat  there  opened  the  window  of  l^s 
own  bedroom,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  striding  through  it. 
All  was  darkness  within,  but  he  needed  no  light  to  see  his  way 
in  that  room.  He  knew  every  crib  and  corner;  the  place 
where  he  kept  his  fishing  lines,  the  nail  from  which  his  moth 
net  hung,  the  bottle  on  the  drawers  in  which  he  had  his 
minnows,  and  the  can  with  the  lid  well  down  that  contained 

59 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  newts  that  were  the  terror  of  all  the  women  in  the  house. 
If  Danny  had  been  as  blind  as  old  Kerry  he  could  have  found 
everything  his  room  had  in  it,  except,  perhaps,  his  breeches, 
or  his  shirt,  or  his  other  coat,  or  that  cap  that  was  always 
getting  itself  lost,  and  of  course  no  sight  and  no  light  would 
help  a  lad  to  find  things  like  these. 

Hardly  had  Danny  taken  a  step  into  his  room  before  he 
realised  that  some  one  had  been  there  since  he  left  it.  Derry, 
his  white-eyed  collie,  who  had  been  lying  on  the  bed,  dropped 
on  the  floor,  and  frisked  about  him.  "  Down,  Derry,  down  ! " 
he  whispered,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought  it  might  have 
been  Derry  that  had  pushed  open  the  door.  But  the  dog's 
snout  could  not  have  turned  down  the  counterpane  of  the  bed, 
or  opened  the  top  drawer  that  held  the  fishing  flies,  or  rum- 
maged among  the  long  rods  in  the  corner.  The  counterpane 
lay  double,  the  drawer  stood  open,  the  rods  were  scattered — 
some  one  had  been  there  to  look  for  him,  and,  not  finding  him, 
had  tried  to  find  a  reason  for  his  absence,  and  that  some  one 
had  either  come  into  the  room  in  the  dark,  or — been  blind. 

"  Aw,  it's  always  Kerry  that's  in  it,"  Danny  told  himself,  and 
with  an  unpleasant  remembrance  of  Kerry's  strange  faculty, 
whereof  he  was  the  peculiar  victim,  he  reflected  that  his  race 
home  had  been  vain.  Then  on  the  instant  Danny  found  him- 
self concocting  a  trick  to  defeat  appearances.  He  had  a  foot 
on  the  stairs  to  carry  out  his  design  when  he  heard  the  door 
at  the  front  of  the  house  open  and  close,  and  a  familiar  step 
pass  through  the  hall.  The  Bishop  Imd  returned.  Danny 
waited  and  listened.  Now  there  was  talking  in  the  library. 
Danny's  quick  ear  could  scarcely  distinguish  the  words,  but 
the  voices  he  could  not  mistake — they  were  the  voices  of  the 
Bishop  and  blind  Kerry.  With  a  stealthy  stride  Danny  went 
up  to  Ewan's  room.  Ewan  was  sleeping.  Feeling  hot  and 
cold  together,  Danny  undressed  and  turned  into  bed.  Before 
he  had  time  to  bury  his  head  under  the  clothes  he  heard  the 
Bishop  on  the  stairs.  The  footsteps  passed  into  the  room  below, 
and  then  after  an  interval  they  were  again  on  the  stairs.  In 
another  moment  Danny  knew,  though  of  course  his  eyes  were 
fast  shut,  and  he  was  sleeping  most  profoundly,  that  the  Bishop 
with  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand  was  leaning  over  him. 

It  would  wrong  the  truth  to  say  that  Master  Danny's 
slumber  was  disturbed  that  night;  but  next  morning  when 
the  boys  awoke  together,  and  Ewan  rose  on  his  elbow  with  a 

60 


DANNY,   THE   MADCAP 

puzzled  gaze  at  his  unexpected  bedfellow,  Danny  sidled  out 
of  the  bed  on  to  the  floor,  and,  without  looking  too  much  into 
Ewan's  face,  he  began  his  toilet,  as  was  his  wont,  by  putting 
on  his  cap.  He  had  got  this  length,  and  was  standing  in  cap 
and  shirt,  when  he  blurted  out  the  mischief  of  last  night^s 
adventure,  the  singing,  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  Bishop, 
the  race  home  along  the  cliff,  and  the  coming  up  to  bed. 
''  But  you  won't  let  on,  Ewan,  will  you  } "  he  said.  Ewan 
looked  at  that  moment  as  if  the  fate  of  the  universe  hung  on 
his  answer,  but  he  gave  the  promise  that  was  required  of  him. 
Then  the  boys  went  downstairs  and  found  Mona,  and  imparted 
the  dread  secret  to  her.  Presently  the  Bishop  came  in  to 
breakfast  with  a  face  that  was  paler  than  usual,  and  more  than 
ordinarily  solemn. 

"  Danny,"  he  said,  "  why  did  you  not  sleep  in  your  own 
bed  last  night,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  slept  with  Ewan,  father,"  Danny  answered  promptly. 

The  Bishop  said  no  more  then,  and  they  all  sat  down  at 
the  table. 

"  And  so  you  two  boys  went  to  bed  together — together  ?  " 
he  said,  and,  with  a  dig  of  emphasis  on  his  last  word,  repeated, 
he  looked  at  Ewan. 

Ewan's  face  crimsoned,  and  his  tongue  faltered,  "Yes, 
uncle." 

The  Bishop's  eyes  fell.  "  Boys,"  he  said  in  another  tone, 
''would  you  think  it  ?     I  have  done  you  a  great  wrong." 

The  boys  were  just  then  most  intent  on  the  table-cloth. 

''  You  must  know,"  the  Bishop  went  on,  "  that  there  was  a 
most  unseemly  riot  at  the  Oiel  Verree,  and  all  night  long  I 
have  been  sore  troubled  by  the  bad  thought  that  Danny  was 
in  the  midst  of  it." 

The  boys  held  their  heads  very  low  over  their  plates,  and 
Mona's  big  eyes  filled  visibly.  Danny's  impulse  was  to  blurt 
out  the  whole  mischief  there  and  then,  but  he  reflected  that 
to  do  so  would  be  to  charge  Ewan  with  falsehood.  Ewan,  on 
his  part,  would  have  confessed  to  the  deception,  but  he  knew 
that  this  would  mean  that  Danny  must  be  punished.  The 
l)oys'  wise  heads  could  see  no  way  out  of  a  tangle  like  that. 
The  breakfast  was  the  quietest  ever  eaten  on  a  Christmas 
morning  at  Bishop's  Court,  and,  little  as  the  talking  was,  the 
Bishop,  strangely  enough,  did  it  all.  But  when  they  "rose 
from  the  table,  and  the  boys  slunk  out  of  the  room  with  most 

61 


THE   DEEMSTER 

portentous  gravity,  Mona  Avent  up  to  the  Bisliop  with  a  face 
lull  of  liquid  grief,  and  turning  the  whole  depths  of  her  great 
troubled  eyes  upon  him,  the  little  maiden  said,  ''  Ewan  didn't 
mean  to  tell  you  what  wasn't  true — and  cousin  Danny  didn't 
intend  to  deceive — but  he  was — that  is,  Danny — I  mean-  - 
dear  uncle,  you  won't " 

"You  mean  that  Danny  was  at  the  Oiel  Verree  last  night 
— I  know  it,  child,  I  know  it,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  he  patted 
her  head  and  smiled. 

But  the  Bishop  knew  also  that  Danny  had  that  day  made 
one  more  step  down  the  steep  of  life,  and  left  a  little  ghost 
of  his  child-self  behind  him,  and  in  his  secret  heart  the  Bishop 
saw  that  shadowy  form,  and  wept  over  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PASSING    THE    LOVE    OF    WOMEN 

Now  the  facts  of  this  history  must  stride  on  some  six  years, 
and  in  that  time  the  Deemster  had  lost  nearly  all  the  little 
interest  he  ever  felt  in  his  children.  Mona  had  budded  into 
womanhood,  tender,  gracious,  quiet,  a  tall,  fair-haired  maiden 
of  twenty,  with  a  drooping  head  like  a  flower,  with  a  voice  soft 
and  low,  and  the  full  blue  eyes  with  their  depths  of  love  and 
sympathy  shaded  by  long  fluttering  lashes  as  the  trembling 
sedge  shades  the  deep  mountain  pool.  It  was  as  ripe  and 
beautiful  a  womanhood  as  the  heart  of  a  father  might  dream 
of,  but  the  Deemster  could  take  little  pleasure  in  it.  If  Mona 
had  been  his  son,  her  quiet  ways  and  tractable  nature  might 
have  counted  for  something ;  but  a  woman  was  only  a  woman 
in  the  Deemster  s  eyes,  and  the  Deemster,  like  the  Bedouin 
chief,  would  have  numbered  his  children  without  counting  his 
daughter.  As  for  Ewan,  he  had  falsified  every  hope  of  the 
Deemster.  His  Spartan  training  had  gone  for  nothing.  He 
was  physically  a  weakling ;  a  tall,  spare  youth  of  two-and- 
twenty,  fair-haired  like  his  sister,  with  a  face  as  spiritual  and 
beautiful,  and  hardly  less  feminine.  He  was  of  a  self-torturing 
spirit,  constantly  troubled  with  vague  questionings,  and  though 
in  this  regard  he  was  very  much  his  father's  son,  the  Deemster 
held  his  temperament  in  contempt. 

62 


PASSING  THE  LOVE   OF   WOMEN 

The  end  of  all  was  that  Ewan  showed  a  strong  desire  to 
enter  the  Church.  The  Deemster  had  intended  that  his  son 
should  study  the  law  and  follow  him  in  his  place  when  his 
time  came.  But  Ewan's  womanly  temperament  co-existed  with 
a  manly  temper.  Into  the  law  he  would  not  go_,  and  the  Church 
he  was  resolved  to  follow.  The  Bishop  had  then  newly  openeil 
at  Bishop's  Court  a  training  college  for  his  clergy,  and  Ewan 
sought  and  obtained  admission.  The  Deemster  fumed,  but 
his  son  was  not  to  be  moved  even  by  his  wrath.  This  was  when 
Ewan  was  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  after  two  more  years  the 
spirituality  of  his  character  overcame  the  obstacle  of  his  youth, 
and  the  Bishop  ordained  him  at  twenty-one.  Then  Ewan  was 
made  chaplain  to  the  household  at  Bishop's  Court. 

Hardly  had  this  been  done  when  Ewan  took  another  step  in 
life.  With  the  knowledge  of  the  Bishop,  but  without  consulting 
the  Deemster,  he  married,  being  now  of  age,  a  pretty  child  of 
sixteen,  the  daughter  of  his  father's  old  foe,  the  vicar  of  the 
parish.  When  knowledge  of  this  act  of  unwisdom  reached  the 
Deemster  his  last  remaining  spark  of  interest  in  his  son  expired, 
and  he  sent  Mona  across  to  Bishop's  Court  with  a  curt  message 
saying  that  Ewan  and  his  wife  were  at  liberty,  if  they  liked,  to 
take  possession  of  the  old  Ballamona.  Thus  he  turned  his  back 
upon  his  son,  and  did  his  best  to  wipe  him  out  of  his  mind. 

Ewan  took  his  young  wife  to  the  homestead  that  had  been 
the  place  of  his  people  for  six  generations,  the  place  where 
he  himself  had  been  bom,  the  place  where  that  other  Ewan, 
his  good  grandfather,  had  lived  and  died. 

More  than  ever  for  these  events  the  Deemster  became  a 
solitary  man.  He  kept  no  company  ;  he  took  no  pleasures. 
Alone  he  sat  night  after  night  in  his  study  at  Ballamona,  and 
Ballamona  was  asleep  before  he  slept,  and  before  it  awoke  he 
was  stirring.  His  daughter's  presence  in  the  house  was  no 
society  for  the  Deemster.  She  grew  beside  him  like  her 
mother's  youth,  a  yet  fairer  vision  of  the  old  days  coming 
back  to  him  hour  by  hour,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  all  that. 
Disappointed  in  his  sole  hope,  his  son,  whom  truly  he  had 
never  loved  for  love's  sake,  but  only  for  his  own  sony  ambi- 
tions, he  sat  down  under  his  disappointment  a  doubly-soured 
and  thrice-hardened  man.  He  had  grown  noticeably  older, 
but  his  restless  energy  suffered  no  abatement.  Bi-weekly  he 
kept  his  courts,  but  few  sought  the  law  whom  the  law  did 
not  first  find,  for  word  went  round  that  the  Deemster  was  a 


THE   DEEMSTER 

hard  judge,  and  deemed  the  laws  in  rigour.  If  men  differed 
about  money,  they  would  say,  "  Och,  why  go  to  the  Deem- 
ster ?  It's  throwing  a  bone  into  the  bad  dog's  mouth,"  and 
then  they  would  divide  their  difference. 

The  one  remaining  joy  of  the  Deemster's  lonely  life  was 
centred  in  his  brother's  son,  Dan.  That  lusty  youth  had  not 
disappointed  his  expectations.  At  twenty  he  wis  a  braw, 
brown-haired,  brown-eyed  lad  of  six  feet  two  inche',  in  stature, 
straight  and  upright,  and  with  the  thews  and  sinews  of  an  ox, 
He  was  the  athlete  of  the  island,  and  where  there  was  a  tough 
job  of  wrestling  to  be  had,  or  a  delightful  bit  of  fighting  to  be 
done,  there  was  Dan  in  the  heart  of  it.  "  Aw,  and  middling 
few  could  come  anigh  him,"  the  people  used  to  say.  But 
more  than  in  Dan's  great  stature  and  great  strength,  the  little 
Deemster  took  a  bitter  pleasure  in  his  daring  irreverence  for 
things  held  sacred.  In  this  regard  Dan  had  not  improved 
with  improving  years.  Scores  of  tricks  his  sad  pugnacity 
devised  to  help  the  farmers  to  cheat  the  parson  of  his  tithe, 
and  it  added  not  a  little  to  the  Deemster's  keen  relish  of 
freaks  like  these  that  it  was  none  other  than  the  son  of  the 
Bishop  who  perpetrated  them.  As  for  the  Bishop  himself,  he 
tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  such  follies.  He  meant  his  son  to 
go  into  the  Church,  and,  in  spite  of  all  outbursts  of  spirits, 
notwithstanding  wrestling  matches  and  fights,  and  even  some 
tipsy  broils  of  which  rumour  was  in  the  air,  he  entered  Dan 
as  a  student  at  the  college  he  kept  at  Bishop's  Court. 

In  due  course  the  time  of  Dan's  examination  came,  and  then 
all  further  clinging  to  a  forlorn  hope  was  at  an  end.  The 
Archdeacon  acted  as  the  Bishop's  examining  chaplain,  and 
more  than  once  the  little  man  had  declared  in  advance  his 
conscientious  intention  of  dealing  with  the  Bishop's  son  as  he 
would  deal  with  any  other.  The  examination  took  place  in  the 
library  of  Bishop's  Court,  and  besides  the  students  and  the 
examiner  there  were  some  six  or  seven  of  the  clergy  present, 
and  Ewan  Mylrea,  then  newly  made  deacon,  was  among  them. 
It  was  a  purely  oral  examination,  and  when  Dan's  turn  came 
the  Archdeacon  assumed  his  loftiest  look,  and  first  tackled  the 
candidat<i  where  he  was  known  to  be  weakest. 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  you  think  you  can  read  your  Greek  Testa- 
ment .'' " 

Dan  answered  that  he  had  never  thought  anything  about  it 

"  I  dare  say,  for  all  your  modesty,  that  you  have  an  idea 

64 


PASSING  THE   LOVE   OF   WOMEN 

that  j'ou  know  it  well  enough  to  teach  it/'  said  the  Arch' 
deacon. 

Dan  hadn't  an  idea  on  the  subject. 

^'Take  down  the  Greek  Testament,  and  imagine  that  I'm 
your  pupil,  and  proceed  to  expound  it,"  said  the  Archdeacon. 

Dan  took  the  book  from  the  bookcase  and  fumbled  it  in 
his  fingers. 

"  Well,  sir,  open  at  the  parable  of  the  tares." 

Dan  scratched  his  big  head  leisurely,  and  he  did  his  best  to 
find  the  place.  "  So  I'm  to  be  tutor — is  that  it }  "  he  said, 
with  a  puzzled  look. 

"That  is  so." 

"  And  you  are  to  be  the  pupil }  " 

"  Precisely — suppose  yourself  my  tutor — and  now  begin." 

At  this  Ewan  stepped  out  with  a  look  of  anxiety.  "  Is 
not  that  a  rather  difficult  supposition.  Archdeacon  .'* "  he  said 
timidly. 

The  Archdeacon  glanced  over  his  grandson  loftily  and  made 
no  reply. 

"Begin,  sir,  begin,"  he  said,  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand 
towards  Dan,  and  at  that  he  sat  down  in  the  high-backed  oak 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Then  on  the  instant  there  came  into  Dan's  quick  eyes  a 
most  mischievous  twinkle.  He  was  standing  before  the  table 
with  the  Greek  Testament  open  at  the  parable  of  the  tares, 
and  he  knew  too  well  he  could  not  read  the  parable. 

"  When  do  we  change  places.  Archdeacon  }  "  he  asked. 

"  We  have  changed  places — you  are  now  the  tutor — I  am 
your  pupil — begin,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  we  have  changed  places,  have  we  }  "  said  Dan  ;  and  at 
that  he  lifted  up  the  Archdeacon's  silver- tipped  walking-cane 
which  lay  on  the  table  and  brought  it  down  again  with  a 
bang.  "  Then  just  you  get  up  off  your  chair,  sir,"  he  said, 
with  a  tone  of  command. 

The  Archdeacon's  russet  face  showed  several  tints  of  blue 
at  that  moment,  but  he  rose  to  his  feet.  Thereupon  Dan 
handed  him  the  open  book. 

"  Now,  sir,"  he  said,  "  first  read  me  the  parable  of  the  tares." 

The  clergy  began  to  shuffle  about  and  look  into  each 
other's  faces.  The  Archdeacon's  expression  was  not  amiable, 
but  he  took  the  book  and  read  the  parable. 

"Veiy  fair,  very  fair  indeed,"  said  Dan,  in  a  tone  of  mild 

Q5 


THE   DEEMSTER 

condescension — "  a  few  false  quantities,  but  very  fair  on  the 
whole." 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  this  is  going  too  far,"  said  one  of 
the  clergy. 

"Silence,  sir,"  said  Dan,  with  a  look  of  outraged  authority. 

Then  there  was  dire  confusion.  Some  of  the  clergy  laughed 
outright,  and  some  giggled  under  their  breath,  and  some 
protested  in  white  wrath,  and  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  the 
examination  came  to  a  sudden  termination,  and,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  wisely  or  foolishly,  Dan  was  adjudged  to  be  unfit  for 
the  ministry  of  the  Church. 

When  the  Bishop  heard  the  verdict,  his  pale  face  whitened 
visibly,  and  he  seemed  to  see  the  beginning  of  the  end.  At 
that  moment  he  thought  of  the  Deemster  with  bitterness. 
This  blow  to  his  hopes  did  not  cement  the  severed  lives  of  the 
brothers.  The  forces  that  had  been  dividing  them  year  by 
year,  since  the  days  of  their  father,  appeared  to  be  drawing 
them  yet  wider  apart  in  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  their  children. 
Each  felt  that  the  other  was  frustrating  his  dearest  expecta- 
tions in  his  son,  and  that  was  an  offence  that  neither  could 
forgive.  To  the  Deemster  it  seemed  that  the  Bishop  was 
bearing  down  every  ambition  of  his  life,  tearing  him  up  as  a 
naked  trunk,  leaving  him  a  childless  man.  To  the  Bishop  it 
seemed  that  the  Deemster  was  wrecking  the  one  life  that  was 
more  to  him  than  his  own  soul,  and  standing  between  him  and 
the  heart  that,  with  all  its  follies,  was  dearer  than  the  world 
beside.  From  this  time  of  Ewan's  marriage  and  Dan's  disgrace 
the  Bishop  and  the  Deemster  rarely  met,  and  when  they  passed 
on  the  road  they  exchanged  only  the  coldest  salutation. 

But  if  the  fates  were  now  more  than  ever  fostering  an 
unnatural  enmity  between  the  sons  of  old  Ewan,  they  were 
cherishing  at  the  same  time  the  loves  of  their  children.  Never 
were  cousins  more  unlike  or  more  fondly  attached.  Between 
Dan,  the  reckless  scapegrace,  and  Mona,  with  the  big  soft  eyes 
and  the  quiet  ways,  the  affection  was  such  as  neither  under- 
stood. They  had  grown  up  side  by  side,  they  had  seen  each 
other  daily,  they  had  scampered  along  the  shore  with  clasped 
hands,  they  had  screamed  at  the  sea-gulls  with  one  voice,  and 
still  they  were  boy  and  girl  together.  But  once  they  were 
stooking  the  barley  in  the  glebe,  and,  the  day  being  hot, 
Mona  tipped  back  her  white  sun-bonnet,  and  it  fell  on  to  her 
shoulders.       Seeing   this,  Dan    came    stealthily  behind    and 

66 


PASSING  THE   LOVE   OF  WOMEN 

thought  very  craftily  to  whisk  it  away  unobserved ;  but  the 
strings  by  which  it  was  tied  caught  in  her  hair  and  tugged  at  its 
knot,  and  the  beautiful  wavy  shower  fell  rip-rip-rippling  down 
her  back.  The  wind  caught  the  loosened  hair  and  tossed 
it  about  her,  and  she  stood  up  erect  among  the  com  with  the 
first  blush  on  her  cheeks  that  Dan  had  ever  brought  there, 
and  turned  full  upon  him  all  the  glorious  light  of  her  deep  blue 
eyes.  Then,  then,  oh  then,  Dan  seemed  to  see  her  for  the  first 
time  a  girl  no  longer,  but  a  woman,  a  woman,  a  woman  !  And 
the  mountains  behind  her  were  in  one  instant  blotted  out  of 
Dan's  eyes,  and  everything  seemed  to  spin  about  him. 

When  next  he  knew  where  he  was,  and  what  he  was  doing, 
behold  there  were  Mona's  rosy  lips  under  his,  and  she  was 
panting  and  gasping  for  breath. 

But  if  the  love  of  Dan  and  Mona  was  more  than  cousinly, 
though  they  knew  it  not  as  yet,  the  love  of  Ewan  for  Dan 
was  wonderful,  and  passing  the  love  of  women.  That  pure 
soul,  with  its  vague  spiritual  yearnings,  seemed  to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  jovial  roysterer,  always  fighting, 
always  laughing,  taking  disgrace  as  a  duck  takes  water,  and 
losing  the  trace  of  it  as  easily.  Twenty  times  he  stood  be- 
tween the  scapegrace  and  the  Bishop,  twenty  times  he  hid 
from  the  good  father  the  follies  of  the  son.  He  thought  for 
that  thoughtless  head  that  never  had  an  ache  or  a  care  under 
its  abundant  curls ;  he  hoped  for  that  light  heart  that  hoped 
for  nothing;  he  trembled  for  the  soul  that  felt  no  fear. 
Never  was  such  loyalty  between  man  and  man  since  David 
wept  for  Jonathan.  And  Ewan's  marriage  disturbed  this 
affection  not  at  all,  for  the  love  he  bore  to  Dan  was  a 
brotherly  passion  for  which  language  has  yet  no  name. 

Let  us  tell  one  story  that  shall  show  this  friendship  in  its 
double  bearings — Ewan's  love  and  temper  and  Dan's  heedless 
harshne#  and  the  great  nature  beneath  it,  and  then  we  will 
pass  on  with  fuller  knowledge  to  weightier  matters. 

Derry,  the  white-eyed  collie  that  had  nestled  on  the  top  of 
his  master's  bed  the  night  Dan  sneaked  home  in  disgrace 
from  the  Oiel  Verree,  was  a  crafty  little  fox,  with  cunning 
and  duplicity  bred  in  his  very  bones.  If  you  were  a  tram}) 
of  the  profession  of  Billy  the  Gawk,  he  would  look  up  at  you 
with  his  big  innocent  eyes,  and  lick  your  hand,  and  thrust 
his  nose  into  your  palm,  and  the  next  moment  he  would 
seize  you  by  the  hindmost  parts  and  hold  on  like  a  leech. 

67 


THE   DEEMSTER 

His  unamiable  qualities  grew  as  he  grew  in  years,  and  one 
day  Dan  went  on  a  long  journey,  leaving  Derry  behind,  and 
when  he  returned  he  had  another  dog  with  him,  a  great 
shaggy  Scotch  collie,  with  bright  eyes,  a  happy  phiz,  and  a 
huge  bush  of  a  tail.  Derry  was  at  the  gate  when  his  master 
came  home,  and  he  eyed  the  new-comer  with  looks  askance. 
From  that  day  Derry  turned  his  back  on  his  master,  he  would 
never  answer  his  call,  and  he  did  not  know  his  whistle  from 
the  croak  of  a  corn-crake.  In  fact,  Derry  took  his  own 
courses,  and  forthwith  fell  into  all  manner  of  dissolute  habits. 
He  went  out  at  night  alone,  incognito,  and  kept  most  un- 
christian hours.  The  farmers  around  complained  that  their 
sheep  were  found  dead  in  the  field,  torn  and  worried  by  a 
dog's  teeth.  Derry  was  known  to  be  a  dog  that  did  not  live 
a  reputable  life,  and  suspicion  fell  on  him.  Dan  took  the  old 
fox  in  hand,  and  thenceforward  Derry  looked  out  on  the 
world  through  a  rope  muzzle. 

One  day  there  was  to  be  a  sheep-dog  match,  and  Dan 
entered  his  Scotch  collie.  Laddie.  The  race  was  to  be  in  the 
meadow  at  the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo,  and  great  crowds  of  people 
came  to  witness  it.  Hurdles  were  set  up  to  make  all  crooks 
and  cranks  of  difficulty,  and  then  a  drift  of  sheep  were  turned 
loose  in  the  field.  The  prize  was  to  the  dog  that  would,  at 
the  word  of  its  master,  gather  the  sheep  together  and  take 
them  out  at  the  gate  in  the  shortest  time.  Ewan,  then 
newly  married,  was  there,  and  beside  him  was  his  child-wife. 
Time  was  called,  and  Dan's  turn  came  to  try  the  mettle  of 
his  Laddie.  The  dog  started  well,  and  in  two  or  three 
minutes  he  had  driven  the  whole  flock  save  two  into  an 
alcove  of  hurdles  close  to  where  Ewan  and  his  wife  stood 
together.  Then  at  the  word  of  his  master  Laddie  set  oiF 
over  the  field  for  the  stragglers,  and  Dan  shouted  to  Ewan 
not  to  stir  a  hand  or  foot  or  the  sheep  would  hef  scattered 
again.  Now  just  at  that  instant  who  should  pop  over  the 
hedge  but  Derry  in  his  muzzle,  and  quick  as  thought  he  shot 
down  his  head,  put  up  his  paws,  threw  off  his  muzzle,  dashed 
at  the  sheep,  snapped  at  their  legs,  and  away  they  went  in 
twenty  directions. 

Before  Ewan  had  time  to  cry  out  Derry  was  gone,  with  his 
muzzle  between  his  teeth.  When  Dan,  who  was  a  perch 
or  two  up  the  meadow,  turned  round  and  saw  what  had 
happened,  and  that  his  dog's  chances  were  gone,  his  anger 

68 


PASSING   THE   LOVE   OF  WOMEN 

overcame  him,  and  he  turned  on  Ewan  with  a  torrent  of  re- 
proaches. 

"There — you've  done  it  with  your  lumbering — curse  it." 

With  complete  self-possession  Ewan  explained  how  Derrj'' 
had  done  the  mischief. 

Then  Dan's  face  was  darker  with  wrath  than  it  had  ever 
been  before. 

"  A  pretty  tale/'  he  said,  and  his  lip  curled  in  a  sneer. 
He  turned  to  the  people  around.  "  Anybody  see  the  dog 
slip  his  muzzle  }  " 

None  had  seen  what  Ewan  affirmed.  The  eyes  of  every 
one  had  been  on  the  two  stragglers  in  the  distance  pursued 
by  Dan  and  Laddie. 

Now  when  Ewan  saw  that  Dan  distrusted  him,  and  ap- 
pealed to  strangers  as  witness  to  his  word,  his  face  flushed 
deep,  and  his  delicate  nostrils  quivered. 

"  A  pretty  tale,"  Dan  repeated,  and  he  was  twisting  on  his 
heel  when  up  came  Derry  again,  his  muzzle  on  his  snout, 
whisking  his  tail,  and  frisking  about  Dan's  feet  with  an 
expression  of  quite  lamb-like  simplicity. 

At  that  sight  Ewan's  livid  face  turned  to  a  great  pallor, 
and  Dan  broke  into  a  hard  laugh. 

"  We've  heard  of  a  dog  slipping  his  muzzle,"  he  said,  "  but 
who  ever  heard  of  a  dog  putting  a  muzzle  on  again  .'*  " 

Then  Ewan  stepped  from  the  side  of  his  girl-wife,  who 
stood  there  with  heaving  breast.  His  eyes  were  aflame,  but 
for  an  instant  he  conquered  his  emotion,  and  said,  with  a 
constrained  quietness,  but  with  a  deep  pathos  in  his  tone, 
*^  Dan,  do  you  think  I've  told  you  the  truth  }  " 

Dan  wheeled  about.  "  I  think  you've  told  me  a  lie,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  came  thick  from  his  throat. 

All  heard  the  word,  and  all  held  their  breath.  Ewan  stood 
a  moment  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  his  pallid  face  whitened 
every  instant.  Then  he  fell  back,  and  took  the  girl-wife  by 
the  hand  and  turned  away  with  her,  his  head  down,  his  very 
heart  surging  itself  out  of  his  choking  breast.  And  as  he 
passed  through  the  throng,  to  carry  away  from  that  scene  the 
madness  that  was  working  in  his  brain,  he  overheard  the  mock- 
ing comments  of  the  people.  "  Aw,  well,  well,  did  you  hear 
that  now  } — called  him  a  liar  and  not  a  word  to  say  agen  it." 
"  A  liar  !  Och,  a  liar  }  and  him  a  parzon,  too  !  "  "  Middling 
chicken-hearted  anyways — A  liar  !     Aw,  well,  well,  well !  " 

69 


THE   DEEMSTER 

At  that  Ewan  flung  away  the  hand  of  his  wife,  and  quiver- 
ing from  head  to  foot  he  strode  towards  Dan. 

"  You've  called  me  a  liar/'  he  said  in  a  shrill  voice  that  was 
like  a  cry.  "  Now,  you  shall  prove  your  word — ^you  shall  fight 
me — you  shall,  by  God." 

He  was  completely  carried  away  by  passion. 

"  The  parzon,  the  parzon  !  Man  alive,  the  young  parzon  ! " 
the  people  muttered,  and  they  closed  around. 

Dan  stood  a  moment.  He  looked  down  from  his  great 
height  at  Ewan's  quivering  form  and  distorted  face.  Then  he 
turned  about  and  glanced  into  the  faces  of  the  people.  In 
another  instant  his  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears ;  he  took  a 
step  towards  Ewan,  flung  his  arms  about  him,  and  buried  his 
head  in  his  neck,  and  the  great  stalwart  lad  wept  like  a  little 
child.  In  another  moment  Ewan's  passion  was  melted  away, 
and  he  kissed  Dan  on  the  cheek. 

"  Blubbering  cowards  !  "  "  Aw,  blatherskites  !  "  "  Och, 
man  alive,  a  pair  of  turtle-doves  I " 

Dan  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  around,  raised  himself  to 
his  full  height,  clenched  his  fists,  and  said — 

"  Now,  my  lads,  you  did  your  best  to  make  a  fight,  and  you 
couldn't  manage  it.  I  won't  fight  my  cousin,  and  he  shan't 
fight  me  ;  but  if  there's  a  man  among  you  would  like  to  know 
for  himself  how  much  of  a  coward  I  am,  let  him  step  out — 
I'm  ready." 

Not  a  man  budged  an  inch. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    SERVICE    ON    THE    SHORE 

It  was  the  spring  of  the  ye^r  when  the  examining  ehaplai!! 
gave  the  verdict  which  for  good  or  ill  put  Dan  out  of  the 
odour  of  sanctity.  Then  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 
eyes  he  haunted  the  shore  where  old  Billy  and  his  mates  were 
spreading  their  nets  and  barking  them  in  preparation  for  the 
herring  season  that  was  soon  to  begin.  There  it  was,  while 
stretched  on  the  warm  shingle,  with  old  Billy  Quilleash  sitting 
near,  smoking  his  black  cutty  and  mending  the  meshes  broken 
by  the  dog-fish  of  last  year,  that  Dan  hit  on  the  idea  of  a  new 

70 


THE  SERVICE   ON   THE   SHORE 

course  in  life.  This  was  nothing  better  or  worse  than  that  of 
turning  fisherman.  He  would  buy  a  smack  and  make  old  Billy 
his  skipper ;  he  would  follow  the  herrings  himself,  and  take 
up  his  own  share  and  the  share  of  the  boat.  It  would  be 
delightful,  and,  of  course,  it  would  be  vastly  profitable.  Every- 
thing looked  plain  and  straight  and  simple,  and  though  old 
Billy  more  than  half  shook  his  grey/head  at  the  project,  and 
let  fall  by  several  inches  his  tawny  face,  and  took  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth  and  cleared  his  throat  noisily  and  looked  vacantly 
out  to  sea,  and  gave  other  ominous  symptoms  of  grave  internal 
dubitation,  Dan  leapt  to  his  feet  at  the  sudden  access  of  new 
purpose,  and  bowled  off  in  hot  haste  to  tell  the  Bishop. 

The  Bishop  listened  in  silence  at  first,  and  with  a  sidelong 
look  out  at  the  window  up  to  the  heights  of  Slieu  Dhoo,  and 
when  Dan,  in  a  hang-dog  manner,  hinted  at  certain  new-born 
intentions  of  reform,  there  was  a  perceptible  trembling  of  the 
Bishop's  eyelids,  and  when  he  gathered  voice  and  pictured  the 
vast  scheme  of  profit  without  loss,  the  Bishop  turned  his  grave 
eyes  slowly  upon  him,  and  then  Dan's  own  eyes  suddenly  fell, 
and  the  big  world  began  to  shrivel  up  to  the  pitiful  dimen- 
sions of  an  orange  with  the  juice  squeezed  out  of  it.  But  the 
end  of  it  all  was  that  the  Bishop  undertook  to  become  re- 
sponsible for  the  first  costs  of  the  boat,  and,  having  made  this 
promise  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  too  well  that  he  is 
pampering  the  whim  of  a  spoiled  boy,  he  turned  away  rather 
suddenly  with  his  chin  a  thought  deeper  than  ever  in  his  breast. 

What  hurry  and  bustle  ensued  !  What  driving  away  to 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  to  every  fishing  port  in  the  island 
w  here  boats  were  built  or  sold  !  At  length  a  boat  was  bought 
on  the  chocks  at  Port  le  Mary,  a  thirty-tons  boat  of  lugger 
build,  and  old  Billy  Quilleash  was  sent  south  to  bring  it  up 
through  the  Calf  Sound  to  the  harbour  at  Peeltown. 

Then  there  was  the  getting  together  of  a  crew.  Of  course, 
old  Billy  was  made  skipper.  He  had,  sailed  twenty  years  in  a 
boat  of  Kinvig's  with  three  nets  to  his  share,  and  half  that  time 
he  had  been  admiral  of  the  Peeltown  fleet  of  herring  boats, 
\\ith  five  pounds  a  year  for  his  post  of  honour.  In  Dan's  boat 
he  was  to  have  four  nets  by  his  own  right,  and  one  for  his 
nephew,  Davy  Fayle.  Davy  was  an  orphan,  brought  up  by 
Billy  Quilleash.  He  was  a  lad  of  eighteen,  and  was  to  sail  as 
boy.  There  were  other  four  hands — Crennel,  the  cook ;  Teare, 
the  mate  ;  Corkell,  and  Corlett. 

71 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Early  and  late  Dan  was  down  at  the  harbour,  stripped  to  the 
woollen  shirt,  and  tackling  any  odd  job  of  painting  or  car- 
pentry, for  the  opening  of  the  herring  season  was  hard  upon 
them.  But  he  found  time  to  run  up  to  the  new  Ballamona  to 
tell  Mona  that  she  was  to  christen  his  new  boat,  for  it  had  not 
been  named  when  it  left  the  chocks;  and  then  to  the  old 
Ballamona,  to  persuade  Ewan  to  go  with  him  on  his  first  trip 
to  the  herrings. 

The  day  appointed  by  custom  for  the  first  takings  of  the 
herring  came  quickly  round.  It  was  a  brilliant  day  in  early 
June.  Ewan  had  been  across  to  Slieu  Dhoo  to  visit  his  father 
for  the  first  time  since  his  marriage,  more  than  half  a  year  ago, 
in  order  to  say  that  he  meant  to  go  out  for  the  night's  fislnng 
in  Dan's  new  boat,  and  to  beg  that  his  young  wife,  who  was 
just  then  in  delicate  health,  might  be  invited  to  spend  the 
night  of  his  absence  with  Mona  at  the  new  Ballamona.  The 
Deemster  complied  with  a  grim  grace ;  Ewan's  young  "wife 
went  across  in  the  early  morning,  and  in  the  afternoon  all  four, 
the  Deemster  and  Mona,  Ewan  and  his  wife,  set  off  in  a  lum- 
bering, springless  coach — the  first  that  the  island  had  yet  seen 
— to  witness  the  departure  of  the  herring  fleet  from  Peeltown, 
and  to  engage  in  that  day's  ceremony. 

The  salt  breath  of  the  sea  was  in  the  air,  and  the  light 
ripples  of  the  bay  glistened  through  a  drowsy  haze  of  warm 
sunshine.  It  was  to  be  high-water  at  six  o'clock.  When  the 
Deemster's  company  reached  Peeltown,  the  sun  was  still  high 
over  Contrary  Head,  and  the  fishing  boats  in  the  harbour,  to  the 
number  of  two  hundred,  were  rolling  gently,  with  their  brown 
sails  half  set,  to  the  motion  of  the  rising  tide. 

There  was  Dan  in  his  guernsey  on  the  deck  of  his  boat,  and, 
as  the  coach  drew  up  near  the  bottom  of  the  wooden  pier,  he 
lifted  his  red  cap  from  his  curly  head,  and  then  went  on  to  tie 
a  bottle  by  a  long  blue  ribbon  to  the  tiller.  There  was  old 
Billy  Quilleash  in  his  sea-boots,  and  there  was  Davy  Fayle,  a 
sli  ambling  sort  of  lad,  long  rather  than  tall,  with  fair  hair 
tangled  over  his  forehead,  and  a  face  which  had  s  simple, 
vacant  look  that  came  of  a  lagging  lower  lip.  Men  on  every 
boat  in  the  harbour  were  washing  the  decks,  or  baling  out 
the  dingey,  or  laying  down  the  nets  below.  The  harbour- 
master was  on  the  quay,  shouting  to  this  boat  to  pull  up  or  to 
that  one  to  lie  back.  And  down  on  the  broad  sands  of  the 
sho.e  were  men,  women,  and  children  in  many  hundreds, 

72 


THE   SERVICE   ON   THE  SHORE 

sitting  and  lying  and  lounging  about  an  empty  boat  with  a 
hole  in  the  bottom  that  lay  high  and  dry  on  the  beach.  The 
old  fishing  town  itself  had  lost  its  chill  and  cheerless  aspect, 
and  no  longer  looked  hungrily  out  over  miles  of  bleak  sea. 
Its  blind  alleys  and  dark  lanes,  its  narrow,  crabbed,  crooked 
streets  were  bright  with  httle  flags  hung  out  of  the  little 
stufFed-up  windows,  and  yet  brighter  with  bright  faces  that 
hun-ied  to  and  fro. 

About  five  o'clock,  as  the  sun  was  dipping  seaward  across 
the  back  of  Contrary,  leaving  the  brown  sails  in  the  harbour 
in  shade,  and  glistening  red  on  the  sides  of  the  cathedral 
church  on  the  island-rock  that  stood  twenty  yards  out  from 
the  mainland,  there  was  a  movement  of  the  people  on  the 
shore  towards  the  town  behind  them,  and  of  fisher-fellows 
from  their  boats  towards  the  beach.  Some  of  the  neighbour- 
ing clergy  had  come  down  to  Peeltown,  and  the  little  Deem- 
ster sat  in  his  coach,  thrown  open,  blinking  in  the  sun  under 
his  shaggy  grey  eyebrows.  But  some  one  was  still  looked  for, 
and  expectation  was  plainly  evident  in  every  face  until  a  cheer 
came  over  the  tops  of  the  houses  from  the  market-place. 
Then  there  was  a  general  rush  towards  the  mouth  of  the  quay, 
and  presently  there  came  labouring  over  the  rough  cobbles  of 
the  tortuous  Castle  Street,  flanked  by  a  tumultuous  company 
of  boys  and  men,  bare-headed  women,  and  children,  who 
halloed  and  waved  their  arms  and  tossed  up  their  caps,  a  rough- 
coated  Manx  pony,  on  which  the  tall  figure  of  the  Bishop  sat. 

The  people  moved  on  with  the  Bishop  at  their  head  until 
they  came  to  the  beach,  and  there,  at  the  disused  boat  lying 
dry  on  the  sand,  the  Bishop  alighted.  In  two  minutes  more 
every  fisherman  in  the  harbour  had  left  his  boat  and  gathered 
with  his  fellows  on  the  shore.  Then  there  began  a  ceremony 
of  infinite  pathos  and  grandeur. 

In  the  open  boat  the  pale-faced  Bishop  stood,  his  long  hair 
sprinkled  with  grey  lifted  gently  over  his  drooping  shoulders 
by  the  gentle  breeze  that  came  with  its  odour  of  brine  from 
the  sea.  Around  him  on  their  knees  on  the  sand  were  the 
tawny-faced  weather-beaten  fishermen  in  their  sea-boots  and 
guernseys,  bare-headed,  and  fumbling  their  soft  caps  in  their 
hard  hands.  There,  on  the  outside,  stood  the  multitude  of  men, 
women,  and  young  children,  and  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd 
stood  the  coach  of  the  Deemster,  and  it  was  half-encircled 
by  the  pawing  horses  of  some  of  the  black-coated  clergy. 
6  73 


THE  DEEMSTER 

The  Bishop  began  the  service.  It  asked  for  the  blessing 
of  God  on  the  fishing  expedition  which  was  about  to  set  out. 
First  came  the  lesson,  "  And  God  said.  Let  the  waters  bring 
forth  abundantly ; "  and  then  the  story  of  Jesus  in  the  ship, 
when  there  arose  a  great  tempest  while  He  slept,  and  His 
disciples  awoke  Him,  and  He  arose  and  rebuked  the  waves ; 
and  then  that  other  story  of  how  the  disciples  toiled  all  night 
and  took  nothing,  but  let  down  their  nets  again  at  Christ's 
word,  and  there  came  a  great  multitude  of  fishes,  and  their 
nets  brake.  "  Restore  and  continue  to  us  the  harvest  of 
the  sea,"  prayed  the  Bishop  with  his  face  uplifted ;  and  the 
men  on  their  knees  on  the  sand,, with  uncovered  heads  and 
faces  in  their  caps,  murmured  their  responses  in  their  own 
tongue,  "Yn  Meailley." 

And  while  they  prayed,  the  soft  boom  of  the  unruffled 
waters  on  the  shore,  and  the  sea's  deep  munnur  from  away 
beyond  the  headland,  and  the  wild  jabbering  cries  of  a  flight 
of  sea-gulls  disporting  on  a  rock  in  the  bay,  were  the  only 
sounds  that  mingled  with  the  Bishop's  deep  tones  and  the 
men's  hoarse  voices. 

Last  of  all  the  Bishop  gave  out  a  hymn.  It  was  a  simple 
old  hymn,  such  as  every  man  had  known  since  his  mother  had 
crooned  it  over  his  cot.  The  men  rose  to  their  feet  and  their 
lusty  voices  took  up  the  strain  ;  the  crowd  behind,  and  the 
clergy  on  their  horses,  joined  it ;  and  from  the  Deemster's 
coach  two  women's  voices  took  it  up,  and  higher,  higher, 
higher,  like  a  lark,  it  floated  up,  until  the  soft  boom  and  deep 
murmur  of  the  sea  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  sea-birds  were 
drowned  in  the  broad  swell  of  the  simple  old  sacred  song. 

The  sun  was  sinking  fast  through  a  red  haze  towards  the 
sea's  verge,  and  the  tide  was  near  the  flood,  when  the  service 
on  the  shore  ended,  and  the  fishermen  returned  to  their  boats. 

Billy  Quilleash  leaped  aboard  the  new  lugger,  and  his  four 
men  followed  him.  "See  all  clear,"  he  ehouted  to  Davy  Fayle; 
and  Davy  stood  on  the  quay  with  the  duty  of  clearing  tlifi 
ropes  from  the  blocks,  and  then  following  in  the  dingey  that 
lay  moored  to  the  wooden  steps. 

Dan  had  gone  up  to  the  Deemster's  coach  and  helped  Mona 
and  the  young  wife  of  Ewan  to  alight.  He  led  them  to  the 
quay  steps,  and  when  the  company  had  gathered  about,  and 
all  was  made  ready,  he  shouted  to  old  Billy  to  throw  him  the 
bottle  that  lay  tied  by  the  blue  ribbon  to  the  tiller.     Then  he 

,    74 


THE   SERVICE   ON   THE   SHORE 

handed  the  bottle  to  Mona,  who  stood  on  the  step,  a  few  feet 
above  the  water's  edge. 

Mona  was  looking  very  fresh  and  beautiful  that  day,  with  a 
delicious  joy  and  pride  in  her  deep  eyes.  Dan  was  talking  to 
her  with  an  awkward  sort  of  consciousness,  looking  askance  at 
his  big  brown  hands  when  they  came  in  contact  with  her  dainty 
white  fingers,  then  glancing  down  at  his  great  clattering  boots, 
and  up  into  her  soft  smooth  face. 

"  What  am  I  to  christen  her .'' "  said  Mona,  with  the  bottle 
held  up  in  her  hand. 

"Mona"  answered  Dan,  with  a  shamefaced  look  and  one 
hand  in  his  brown  hair. 

"No,  no,"  said  she,  "not  that." 

"  Then  what  you  like,"  said  Dan. 

"Well,  the  Ben-my-Chree"  said  Mona,  and  with  that  the 
bottle  broke  on  the  boat's  side. 

In  another  instant  Ewan  was  kissing  his  meek  little  wife, 
and  bidding  her  good-bye,  and  Dan,  in  a  fumbling  way,  was, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  demurely  shaking  Mona's  hand, 
and  trying  hard  to  look  her  in  the  face. 

"  Tail  on  there,"  shouted  Quilleash  from  the  lugger.  Then 
the  two  men  jumped  aboard,  Davy  Fayle  ran  the  ropes  from 
the  blocks,  the  admiral's  boat  cleared  away  from  the  quay,  and 
the  admiral's  flag  was  shot  up  to  the  masthead.  The  other 
boats  in  the  harbour  followed  one  by  one,  and  soon  the  bay  was 
full  of  the  fleet. 

As  the  Ben-my-Chree  stood  out  to  sea  beyond  the  island- 
rock,  Dan  and  Ewan  stood  aft,  Dan  in  his  brown  guernsey, 
Ewan  in  his  black  coat ;  Ewan  waving  his  handkerchief,  and 
Dan  his  cap  ;  old  Billy  was  at  the  tiller,  Crennel,  the  cook,  had 
his  head  just  above  the  hatchways,  and  Davy  was  clambering 
hand-over-hand  up  the  rope  by  which  the  dingey  was  hauled 
to  the  stem. 

Then  the  herring  fleet  sailed  away  under  the  glow  of  the 
setting  sun. 


75 


THE   DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  X 

THE    FIRST    NIGHT    WITH    THE    HERRINGS 

The  sun  went  down,  and  a  smart  breeze  rose  off  the  land  as  the 
Bcn-my-Chree,  with  the  fleet  behind  her,  rounded  Contrary 
Head,  and  crossed  the  two  streams  that  flow  there.  For  an 
hour  afterwards  there  was  still  light  enough  to  see  the  coast- 
line curved  into  covelets  and  promontories,  and  to  look  for  miles 
over  the  hills  with  their  moles  of  gorse,  and  tussocks  of  lush 
grass.  The  twilight  deepened  as  the  fleet  rounded  Niarbyl 
Point,  and  left  the  islet  on  their  lee,  with  Cronk-ny-Irey-Lhaa 
towering  into  the  gloomy  sky.  When  they  sailed  across  Flesh- 
wick  Bay  the  night  gradually  darkened,  and  nothing  was  seen 
of  Ennyn  Mooar.  But  after  an  hour  of  darkness  the  heavens 
lightened  again,  and  glistened  with  stars,  and  when  old  Billy 
Quilleash  brought  his  boat-head  to  the  wind  in  six  fathoms  of 
water  outside  Port  Erin,  the  moon  had  risen  behind  Bradda, 
and  the  rugged  headland  showed  clear  against  the  sky.  One 
after  another  the  boats  and  the  fleet  brought  to  about  the 
Ben-mij-Chree. 

Dan  asked  old  Billy  if  he  had  found  the  herrings  on  this 
ground  at  the  same  time  in  former  seasons. 

"  Not  for  seven  years,"  said  the  old  man.       • 

"  Then  why  try  now  ?  " 

Bill  stretched  out  his  hand  to  where  a  flight  of  sea-gulls  were 
dipping  and  sailing  in  the  moonlight.  "  See  the  gull  there  ?  " 
he  said.     "  She's  skipper  to-night ;  she's  showing  us  the  fish." 

Davy  Fayle  had  been  leaning  over  the  bow,  rapping  with  a 
stick  at  the  timbers  near  the  water's  edge. 

"Any  signs .'^"  shouted  Billy  Quilleash. 

"  Ay,"  said  Davy,  "  the  mar-fire's  risin'." 

The  wind  had  dropped,  and  luminous  patches  of  phosphores- 
cent light  in  the  water  were  showing  that  the  herrings  were 
stirring. 

"  Let's  make  a  shot ;  up  with  the  gear,"  said  Quilleash,  and 
preparations  were  made  for  shooting  the  nets  over  the  quarter. 

"  Ned  Teare,  you  see  to  the  line.  Crennel,  look  after  the 
corks.  Davy — where's  that  lad  } — look  to  the  seizings,  d'ye 
hear?" 

76 


THE   FIRST  NIGHT  WITH   THE   HERRINGS 

Then  the  nets  were  hauled  from  below,  and  passed  over  a 
bank-board  placed  between  the  hatchway  and  the  top  of  the 
bulwark.  Teare  and  Crennel  shot  the  gear,  and  as  the 
seizings  came  up,  Davy  ran  aft  with  them,  and  made  them 
fast  to  the  warp  near  the  taffrail. 

When  the  nets  were  all  paid  out,  every  net  in  the  drift  being 
tied  to  the  next,  and  a  solid  wall  of  meshes  nine  feet  deep  had 
been  swept  away  along  the  sea  for  half  a  mile  behind  them, 
Quilleash  shouted,  "  Down  with  the  sheets." 

The  ropes  were  hauled,  the  sails  were  taken  in,  the  main- 
mast— which  was  so  made  as  to  lower  backward — was  dropped, 
and  only  the  drift-mizzen  was  left,  and  that  was  to  keep  the 
boat-head  on  to  the  wind. 

"  Up  with  the  light  there,"  said  Quilleash. 

At  this  word  Davy  Fayle  popped  his  head  out  of  the 
hatchways. 

"  Aw,  to  be  sure,  that  lad's  never  ready.  Ger  out  of  that, 
quick." 

Davy  jumped  on  deck,  took  a  lantern  and  fixed  it  to  the 
top  of  the  mitch-board.  Then  vessel  and  nets  drifted 
together,  and  Dan  and  Ewan,  who  had  kept  the  deck  until 
now,  went  below  together. 

It  was  now  a  calm,  clear  night,  with  just  light  enough  to 
show  two  or  three  of  the  buoys  on  the  back  of  the  net  nearest 
to  the  boat  as  they  floated  under  water.  Old  Billy  had  not 
mistaken  his  ground.  Large  white  patches  came  moving  out 
of  the  surrounding  pavement  of  deep  black,  lightened  only  by 
the  image  of  a  star  where  the  vanishing  ripples  left  the  dark 
sea  smooth.  Once  or  twice  countless  faint  popping  sounds 
were  to  be  heard,  and  minute  points  of  shooting  silver  were 
to  be  seen  on  the  water  around.  The  herrings  were  at  play, 
and  shoals  on  shoals  soon  broke  the  black  sea  into  a  glisten- 
ing foam. 

But  no  "  strike  "  was  made,  and  after  an  hour's  time  Dan 
popped  his  head  over  the  hatchways  and  asked  the  skipper  to 
try  the  "  look-on  "  net.  The  warp  was  hauled  in  until  the 
first  net  was  reached.  It  came  up  as  black  as  coal,  save  for 
a  dog-fish  or  two  that  had  broken  a  mesh  here  and  there. 

"  Too  much  moon  to-night,"  said  Quilleash  ;  "  they  see  the 
nets,  and  'cute  they  are  extraordinary." 

But  half-an-hour  later  the  moon  went  out  behind  a  thick 
ridge  of  cloud  that  floated  over  the  land  ;  the  sky  became  grey 

77 


THE  DEEMSTER 

and  leaden,  and  a  rising  breeze  ruffled  the  sea.  Tlien  hour 
after  hour  wore  on,  and  not  a  fish  came  to  the  look-on  net. 
Towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  moon  broke  out 
again.  "There'll  be  a  heavy  strike  now/'  said  Quill eash,  and 
in  another  instant  a  luminous  patch  floated  across  the  line 
of  the  nets,  sunk,  disappeared,  and  finally  pulled  three  of  the 
buoys  down  with  them. 

"  Pull  up  now,"  shouted  Quilleash,  in  another  tone. 

Then  the  nets  were  hauled.  Davy,  the  boy,  led  the  warp 
through  a  snatch-block  fixed  to  the  mast-hole  on  to  the 
capstan.  Ned  Teare  disconnected  the  nets  from  the  warps, 
and  Crennel  and  Corlett  pulled  the  nets  over  the  gunwale. 
They  came  up  silver-white  in  the  moonlight,  a  solid  block 
of  fish.  Billy  Quilleash  and  Dan  passed  them  over  the 
scudding-pole  and  shook  the  herrings  into  the  hold. 

"Five  maze  at  least," 'said  Quilleash,  with  a  chuckle  of 
satisfaction.  "Try  again."  And  once  more  the  nets  were 
shot.  The  other  boats  of  the  fleet  were  signalled,  by  a  blue 
light  run  up  the  drift-mizzen,  that  the  Ben-my-Chree  had 
struck  a  scale  of  fish.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  blue  light 
was  answered  by  other  blue  lights  on  every  side,  and  these 
reported  that  the  fishery  was  everywhere  faring  well. 

One,  two,  three  o'clock  came  and  went.  The  night  was 
wearing  on ;  the  moon  went  out  once  more,  and  in  the  dark- 
ness which  preceded  the  dawn  the  lanterns  burning  on  the 
fleet  of  drifting  boats  gave  out  an  eerie  glow  across  the  waters 
that  lay  black  and  flat  around.  The  grey  light  came  at  length 
in  the  east,  and  the  sun  rose  over  the  land.  Then  the  nets 
were  hauled  in  for  the  last  time  and  that  night's  fishing  was 
done.  The  mast  was  lifted,  but  before  the  boat  was  brought 
about  the  skipper  shouted,  "  Men,  let  us  do  as  we're  used  of," 
and  instantly  the  admiral's  flag  was  run  up  to  the  masthead, 
and  at  this  sign  the  men  dropped  on  one  knee  with  their  faces 
in  their  caps,  and  old  Billy  offered  up  a  short  and  simple  prayer 
of  thanks  for  the  blessings  of  the  sea. 

When  this  was  done  every  man  leapt  to  his  feet,  and  all  was 
work,  bustle,  shouting,  singing  out,  and  some  lusty  curses. 

"  Tumble  up  the  sheets — bear  a  hand  there — d the 

lad,"  bawled  Quilleash ;  "  ger  out  of  the  way,  or  I'll  make 
you  walk  handsome  over  the  bricks." 

In  five  minutes  more  the  Ben-my-Chree,  with  the  herring 
fleet  behind  her,  was  running  home  before  a  stiff  breeze. 


THE   FIRST   NIGHT   WITH   THE   HERRINGS 

"  Nine  maze — not  bad  for  the  first  night/'  said  Dan  to 
Ewan. 

"  Souse  them  well,"  said  Quilleash,  and  Ned  Teare  sprinkled 
salt  on  the  herrings  as  they  lay  in  the  hold. 

Crennel,  the  cook,  better  known  as  the  slushy,  came  up  tlie 
hatchways  with  a  huge  saucepan,  which  he  filled  with  the  fish. 
As  he  did  so  there  was  a  faint  "  cheep,  cheep  "  from  below — ■ 
the  herrings  were  still  alive. 

All  hands  went  down  for  a  smoke  except  Corlett,  who  stood 
at  the  tiller,  Davy,  who  counted  for  nobody  and  stretched 
himself  out  at  the  bow,  and  Ewan.  The  young  parson,  who 
had  been  taking  note  of  the  lad  during  the  night,  now  seated 
himself  on  a  coil  of  rope  near  where  Davy  lay.  The  "  cheep, 
cheep  "  was  the  only  sound  in  the  air  except  the  plash  of  the 
waters  at  the  boat's  bow,  and,  with  an  inclination  of  the  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  fish  in  the  hold,  Ewan  said,  '^  It  seems 
cruel,  Davy,  doesn't  it .'' " 

"  Cruel  .'*  Well,  pozzible,  pozzible.  Och,  'deed  now, 
they've  got  their  feelings  same  as  anybody  else." 

The  parson  had  taken  the  lad's  measure  at  a  glance. 

"  You  should  see  the  shoals  of  them  lying  round  the  nets, 
watching  the  others — their  mothers  and  sisters,  as  you  might 
say — who've  got  their  gills  'tangled.  And  when  you  haul  the 
net  up,  away  they  go  at  a  slant  in  millions  and  millions  just 
the  same  as  lightning  going  through  the  water.  Och,  yes, 
yes,  leave  them  alone  for  having  their  feelings." 

"  It  does  seem  cruel,  Davy,  eh  }  " 

Davy  looked  puzzled  ;  he  was  reasoning  out  a  grave  problem. 

''Well,  sir,  that's  the  mortal  strange  part  of  it.  It  does 
look  cruel  to  catch  them,  sarten  sure  ;  but  then  the  herrings 
themselves  catch  the  sand-eels,  and  the  cod  catch  the  herring, 
and  the  porpoises  and  grampuses  catch  the  cod." 

Ewan  did  his  best  to  look  astonished. 

"  Aw,  that's  the  truth,  sir.  It's  terrible,  wonderful,  strange, 
but  I  suppose  it's  all  nathur.  You  see,  sir,  we  do  the  same 
ourselves." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Davy  }  We  don't  eat  each  other,  I 
hope,"  said  the  young  parson. 

"  Och,  don't  we  though  }     Lave  us  alone  for  that." 

Ewan  tried  to  look  appalled. 

"  Well,  of  coorse,  not  to  say  ate,  not  'xactly  ate ;  but  the 
biggest  chap  allis  rigs  the  rest ;  and  the  next  biggest  chaj) 

79 


THE  DEEMSTER 

allis  rigs  a  littler  one,  you  know,  and  the  littlest  chap,  he 
gets  rigged  by  everybody  all  round,  doesn't  he,  sir?" 

Davy  had  got  a  grip  of  the  knotty  problem,  but  the  lad's 
poor,  simple  face  looked  sadly  burdened,  and  he  came  back 
to  his  old  word. 

"  Seems  to  me  it  must  be  all  nathur,  sir." 

Ewan  began  to  feel  some  touch  of  shame  at  playing  with 
tins  simple,  earnest,  big  little  heart.  "  So  you  think  it  ali 
nature,  Davy,"  he  said,  with  a  lump  gathering  in  his  throat. 

"  Well,  well,  I  do,  you  know,  sir ;  it  does  make  a  fellow 
fit  to  cry  a  bit,  somehow ;  but  it  must  be  nathur,  sir." 

And  Davy  took  off  his  blue  worsted  cap  and  fumbled  it 
and  gave  his  troubled  young  head  a  grave  shake. 

Then  there  was  some  general  talk  about  Davy's  early  history, 
Davy's  father  had  been  pressed  into  the  army  before  Davy 
was  born,  and  had  afterwards  been  no  more  heard  of ;  then 
his  mother  had  died,  and  Billy  Quilleash,  being  his  mother's 
elder  brother,  had  brought  him  up.  Davy  had  always  sailed 
as  boy  with  Uncle  Billy,  he  was  sailing  as  boy  then,  and  that 
was  to  the  end  that  Uncle  Billy  might  draw  his  share  ;  but  the 
young  master  (Mastha  Dan)  had  spoken  up  for  him,  so  he 
had,  and  he  knew  middlin'  well  what  that  would  come  to. 
"  He's  a  tidy  lump  of  a  lad  now,"  says  Mastha  Dan,  "  and 
he's  well  used  of  the  boats,  too,"  says  he,  "  and  if  he  does 
well  this  time,"  he  says,  "  he  must  sail  man  for  himself  next 
season.     Aw,  yes,  sir,  that  was  what  Mastha  Dan  said."  * 

It  was  clear  that  Dan  was  the  boy's  hero.  When  Dan  was 
mentioned  that  lagging  lip  gave  a  yearning  look  to  Davy's 
simple  face.  Dan's  doubtful  exploits  and  his  dubious  triumphs 
all  looked  glorious  in  Davy's  eyes.  Davy  had  watched  Dan, 
and  listened  to  him,  and  though  Dan  might  know  nothing  of 
his  silent  worship,  every  word  that  Dan  had  spoken  to  him 
had  been  hoarded  up  in  the  lad's  heart  like  treasure.  Davy 
had  the  dog's  soul,  and  Dan  was  his  master. 

"  Uncle  Billy  and  him's  same  as  brothers,"  said  Davy  ;  "and 
Uncle  Billy's  uncommon  proud  of  the  young  master,  and 
middlin'  jealous,  too.     Aw,  well !  who's  wondering  at  it .'' " 

Just  then  Crennel,  the  cook,  came  up  to  say  that  breakfast 
was  ready,  and  Ewan  and  Davy  went  below,  the  young  parson's 
hand  resting  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  In  the  cabin  Dan  was 
sitting  by  the  stove,  laughing  immoderately.  Ewan  saw  at  a 
glance  that  Dan  had  been  drinking,  and  he  forthwith  elbowed 

80 


THE   FIRST  NIGHT  WITH   THE   HERRINGS 

his  way  to  Dan's  side,  and  lifted  a  brandy  bottle  from  the  stove 
top  into  the  locker,  under  pretence  of  finding  a  place  for  his 
hat.  Then  all  hands  sat  down  to  the  table.  There  was  a 
huge  dish  of  potatoes  boiled  in  their  jackets,  and  a  similar 
dish  of  herrings.  Every  man  dipped  into  the  dishes  with  his 
hands,  Hfted  his  herring  on  to  his  plate,  ran  his  fingers  from 
tail  to  head,  swept  all  the  flesh  off  the  fresh  fish,  and  threw 
the  bare  backbone  into  the  crock  that  stood  behind. 

"  Keep  a  corner  for  the  Meailley  at  the  '  Three  Legs,' " 
said  Dan. 

There  was  to  be  a  herring  breakfast  that  morning  at  the 
"  Three  Legs  of  Man,"  to  celebrate  the  opening  of  the  fishing 
season. 

"  You'll  come,  Ewan,  eh  .'* " 

The  young  parson  shook  his  head. 

Dan  was  in  great  spirits,  to  which  the  spirits  he  had  im- 
bibed contributed  a  more  than  common  share.  Ewan  saw  the 
too  familiar  light  of  dangerous  mischief  dancing  in  Dan's  eyes, 
and  made  twenty  attempts  to  keep  the  conversation  within 
ordinary  bounds  of  seriousness.  But  Dan  was  not  to  be 
restrained,  and  breaking  away  into  the  homespun — a  sure 
indication  that  the  old  Adam  was  having  the  upper  hand — 
he  forthwith  plunged  into  some  chaff  that  was  started  by  the 
mate,  Ned  Teare,  at  Davy  Fayle's  expense. 

"Aw,  ye  wouldn't  think  it's  true,  would  ye,  now.'*"  said 
Ned,  with  a  wink  at  Dan  and  a  "  glime  "  at  Davy. 

"  And  what's  that }  "  said  Dan,  with  another  '^  glime  "  at 
the  lad. 

"Why,  that  the  like  o'  yander  is  tackin*  round  the 
gels."^ 

"  D'ye  raely  mane  it  .-^ "  said  Dan,  dropping  his  herring  and 
lifting  his  eyes. 

Ewan  coughed  with  some  volume,  and  said,  "  There,  there, 
Dan,  there,  there." 

"Yes,  though,  and  sniffin'  and  snuffin'  abaft  of  them 
astonishin',"  Ned  Teare  put  in  again. 

"Aw,  well,  well,  well,"  said  Dan,  turning  up  afresh  the 
whites  of  his  eyes. 

There  was  not  a  sign  from  Davy ;  he  broke  his  potato  more 
carefully,  and  took  both  hands  and  both  eyes  to  strip  away  its 
jacket. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  craythur's  doing  somethin'  in  the  spoony 

81 


THE  DEEMSTER 

line/*  said  Billy  Quilleash ;  "  him  as  hasn't  the  hayseed  out 
of  his  hair  yet." 

"  Aw,  well/'  said  Dan,  pretending  to  come  to  Davy's  rehef, 
"  it  isn't  raisonable  but  the  lad  should  be  coortin'  some  gel 
nf)w." 

"  What's  that  ? "  shouted  Quilleash,  dropping  the  banter 
rather  suddenly.  "What,  and  not  a  farthing  at  him.''  And 
owin'  me  fortune  for  the  bringin'  up." 

"  No  matter,  Billy,"  said  Dan,  "  and  don't  ride  a  man  down 
like  a  main-tack.  One  of  these  fine  mornings  Davy  will  be 
payin'  his  debt  to  you  with  the  foretopsail." 

Davy's  eyes  were  held  very  low,  but  it  was  not  hard  to  see 
that  they  were  beginning  to  fill. 

"That  will  do,  Dan,  that  will  do,"  said  Ewan.  The  young 
parson's  face  had  grown  suddenly  pale,  but  Dan  saw  nothing 
of  that. 

"  And  look  at  him  there,"  said  Dan,  reaching  round  Ewan 
to  prod  Davy  in  the  ribs,  "look  at  him  there  pretendin'  he 
never  knows  nothin'." 

The  big  tears  were  near  to  toppling  out  of  Davy's  eyes. 
He  could  have  borne  the  chaff  from  any  one  but  Dan. 

"  Dan,"  said  Ewan,  with  a  constrained  quietness,  "  stop  it ; 
I  can't  stand  it  much  longer." 

At  that  Davy  got  up  from  the  table,  leaving  his  unfinished 
breakfast,  and  began  to  climb  the  hatchways. 

"  Aw,  now,  look  at  that,"  said  Dan  with  affected  solemnity, 
and  so  saying,  and  not  heeding  the  change  in  Ewan's  manner, 
Dan  got  up  too  and  followed  Davy  out,  put  an  arm  round  the 
lad's  waist,  and  tried  to  draw  him  back.  "  Don't  mind  the 
loblolly  boys,  Davy  veg,"  he  said  coaxingly.  Davy  pushed 
him  away  with  an  angry  word. 

"  What's  that  he's  after  saying  ?  "  asked  Quilleash. 

"  Nothin' ;  he  only  cussed  a  bit,"  said  Dan. 

"  Cussed,  did  he  ?  He'd  better  show  a  leg  if  he  don't  want 
the  rat's  tail." 

Then  Ewan  rose  from  the  table,  and  his  eyes  flashed  and 
his  pale  face  quivered. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  said  in  a  tense,  tremulous 
voice;  "there's  not  a  man  among  you.  You're  a  lot  of 
skulking  cowards," 

At  that  he  was  making  for  the  deck  ;  but  Dan,  whose  face, 
full  of  the  fire  of  the  liquor  he  had  taken,  grew  in  one  moment 

82 


THE  FIRST  NIGHT   WITH   THE   HERRINGS 

old  and  ugly,  leapt  to  his  feet  in  a  tempest  of  wrath,  over- 
turned his  stool  and  rushed  at  Ewan  with  eyes  aflame  and 
uplifted  hand,  and  suddenly,  instantly,  like  a  flash,  his  fist 
fell,  and  Ewan  rolled  on  the  floor. 

Then  the  men  jumped  up  and  crowded  round  in  confusion. 
**  The  parzon  !  the  parzon ;  God  preserve  me,  the  parzon  !  " 

There  stood  Dan,  with  a  ghastly  countenance,  white  and 
convulsed,  and  there  at  his  feet  lay  Ewan. 

"  God  A'mighty  !  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan,"  cried  Davy. 
Before  the  men  had  found  time  to  breathe,  Davy  had  leapt 
back  from  the  deck  to  the  cockpit,  and  had  lifted  Ewan's 
head  on  to  his  knee. 

Ewan  drew  a  long  breath  and  opened  his  eyes.  He  was 
bleeding  from  a  gash  above  the  temple,  having  fallen  among 
some  refuse  of  iron  chain.  Davy,  still  moaning  piteously, 
'*^Oh,  Mastha  Dan,  God  A'mighty,  Mastha  Dan,"  took  a 
white  handkerchief  from  Ewan's  breast,  and  bound  it  about 
his  head  over  the  wound.  The  blood  oozed  through  and 
stained  the  handkerchief. 

Ewan  rose  to  his  feet  pale  and  trembling,  and  without 
looking  at  any  one,  steadied  himself  by  Davy's  shoulder  and 
clambered  weakly  to  the  deck.  There  he  stumbled  forward, 
sat  down  on  the  coil  of  rope  that  had  been  his  seat  before, 
and  buried  his  uncovered  head  in  his  breast. 

The  sun  had  now  risen  above  Contrary,  and  the  fair  young 
morning  light  danced  over  the  rippling  waters  far  and  near. 
A  fresh  breeze  blew  from  the  land,  and  the  boats  of  the  fleet 
around  and  about  scudded  on  before  the  wind  like  a  flight  of 
happy  birds  with  outspread  wings. 

The  Ben-my-Chree  was  then  rounding  the  held,  and  the 
smoke  was  beginning  to  coil  up  in  many  a  slender  shaft 
above  the  chinuieys  of  the  little  town  of  Peel.  But  Ewan 
saw  nothing  of  this ;  with  head  on  his  breast,  and  his  heart 
cold  within  him,  he  sat  at  the  bow. 

Down  below  Dan  was  then  doing  his  best  to  make  himself 
believe  that  he  was  unconcerned.  He  whistled  a  little,  and 
sang  a  little,  and  laughed  a  good  deal ;  but  the  whistle  lost  its 
tune,  and  the  song  stopped  short,  and  the  laugh  was  loud  and 
empty.  When  he  first  saw  Ewan  lie  where  he  fell,  all  the  fire 
of  his  evil  passion  seemed  to  die  away,  and  for  the  instant  his 
heart  seemed  to  choke  him,  and  he  was  prompted  to  drop  down 
and  lift  Ewan  to  his  feet ;  but  at  that  moment  his  stubborn 

83 


THE   DEEMSTER 

knees  would  not  bend,  and  at  the  next  moment  the  angel  of 
God  troubled  the  waters  of  his  heart  no  more.  Then  the 
fisher-fellows  overcame  their  amazement,  and  began  to  crow, 
and  to  side  with  him,  and  to  talk  of  his  pluck,  and  what  not. 

"  The  parzons — och,  the  parzons — they  think  they  may 
ride  a  man  down  for  half  a  word  inside  his  gills." 

'^ '  Cowards ' — och,  '  skulking  cowards,'  if  you  plaze — right 
sarved  say  I  !  " 

Dan  tramped  about  the  cabin  restlessly,  and  sometimes 
chuckled  aloud  and  asked  himself  what  did  he  care,  and  then 
laughed  noisily,  and  sat  down  to  smoke,  and  presently  jumped 
up,  threw  the  pipe  into  the  open  stove,  and  took  the  brandy 
bottle  out  of  the  locker.  Where  was  Ewan  }  What  was  he 
doing  .f*  What  was  he  looking  like  .''  Dan  would  rather  have 
died  than  humbled  himself  to  ask ;  but  would  none  of  these 
grinning  boobies  tell  him.'*  When  Teare,  the  mate,  came 
down  from  the  deck,  and  said  that  sarten  sure  the  young 
parzon  was  after  sayin'  his  prayers  up  forrard,  Dan's  eyes 
flashed  again,  and  he  had  almost  lifted  his  hand  to  fell  the 
sniggering  waistrel.  He  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and 
protested  afresh,  though  none  had  yet  disputed  it,  that  he 
cared  nothing,  not  he,  let  them  say  what  they  liked  to  the 
contrary. 

In  fifteen  minutes  from  the  time  of  the  quarrel  the  fleet 
was  running  into  harbour.  Dan  had  leaped  on  deck  just  as 
the  Ben-my-Chree  touched  the  two  streams  outside  Contrary. 
He  first  looked  forward,  and  saw  Ewan  sitting  on  the  cable  in 
the  bow  with  his  eyes  shut  and  his  pallid  face  sunk  deep  in 
his  breast.  Then  a  strange,  wild  light  shot  into  Dan's  eyes, 
and  he  reeled  aft  and  plucked  the  tiller  from  the  hand  of 
Corlett,  and  set  it  hard-a-port,  and  drove  the  boat  head  on 
for  the  narrow  neck  of  water  that  flowed  between  the  mainland 
and  the  island-rock  on  which  the  old  castle  stood. 

"  Hould  hard,"  shouted  old  Billy  Quilleash,  "  there's  not 
water  enough  for  the  like  o'  that — you'll  run  her  on  the  rocks." 

Then  Dan  laughed  wildly,  and  his  voice  rang  among  the 
ct)ves  and  caves  of  the  coast. 

"  Here's  for  the  harbour  or — hell,"  he  screamed,  and  then 
another  wild  peal  of  his  mad  laughter  rang  in  the  air  and 
echoed  from  the  land. 

"  What's  agate  of  the  young  mastha  }  "  the  men  muttered 
one  to  another ;  and  with  eyes  of  fear  they  stood  stock-still 

84 


THE   HERRING  BREAKFAST 

on  the  deck  and  saw  themselves  driven  on  towards  the  shoals 
of  the  little  sound. 

In  two  minutes  more  they  breathed  freely.  Tlie  Ben-^my~ 
Chree  had  shot  like  an  arrow  through  the  belt  of  water  and 
was  putting  about  in  the  harbour. 

Dan  dropped  the  tiller,  reeled  along  the  deck,  scarcely  able 
tc  bear  himself  erect,  and  stumbled  under  the  hatchways. 
Old  Billy  brought  up  the  boat  to  its  moorings. 

"  Come,  lay  down,  d'ye  hear  }     Where's  that  lad  ?  " 

Davy  was  standing  by  the  young  parson. 

''  You  idiot  waistrel,  why  d'ye  stand  prating  there  ?  I'll 
pay  you,  you  beachcomber." 

The  skipper  was  making  for  Davy,  when  Ewan  got  up, 
stepped  towards  him,  looked  him  hard  in  the  face,  seemed 
about  to  speak,  checked  himself  and  turned  away. 

Old  Billy  broke  into  a  bitter  little  laugh,  and  said,  "I'm  right 
up  and  down  like  a  yard  o'  pump  water,  that's  what  I  am." 

The  boat  was  now  at  the  quay  side,  and  Ewan  leapt  ashore. 
Without  a  word  or  a  look  more  he  walked  away,  the  white 
handkerchief,  clotted  with  blood,  still  about  his  forehead, 
and  his  hat  carried  in  his  hand. 

On  the  quay  there  were  numbers  of  women  with  baskets 
waiting  to  buy  the  fish.  Teare,  the  mate,  and  Crennel,  the 
cook,  counted  the  herrings  and  sold  them.  The  rest  of  the 
crew  stepped  ashore. 

Dan  went  away  with  the  rest.  His  face  was  livid  in  the 
soft  morning  sunlight.  He  was  still  keeping  up  his  brave 
outside,  while  the  madness  was  growing  every  moment  fiercer 
within.  As  he  stumbled  along  the  paved  way  with  an  un- 
steady step  his  hollow  laugh  grated  on  the  quiet  air. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    HERRING    BREAKFAST 

It  was  between  four  o'clock  and  five  when  the  fleet  ran  into 
Peeltown  harbour  after  the  first  night  of  the  herring  season, 
and  towards  eight  the  fisher-fellows,  to  the  number  of  fifty  at 
least,  had  gathered  for  their  customary  first  breakfast  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  "  Three  Legs  of  Man."     What  sport !     What 

85 


THE   DEEMSTER 

noisy  laughter !  What  singing  and  rollicking  cheers  !  The 
men  stood  neither  on  the  order  of  their  coming  nor  their 
going,  their  sitting  nor  their  standing.  In  they  trooped  in 
their  woollen  caps  or  their  broad  sou'westers,  their  oilskins 
or  their  long  sea-boots  swung  across  their  arms.  They  wore 
their  caps  or  not  as  pleased  them,  they  sang  or  talked  as 
suited  them,  they  laughed  or  sneezed,  they  sulked  or  snarled, 
they  were  noisy  or  silent,  precisely  as  the  whim  of  the  in- 
dividual prescribed  the  individual  rule  of  manners.  Rathei 
later  than  the  rest  Dan  Mylrea  came  swinging  in,  with  a 
loud  laugh  and  a  shout,  and  something  like  an  oath,  too,  and 
the  broad  homespun  on  his  lips. 

"  Billy  Quilleash — I  say,  Billy,  there — why  don't  you  put 
up  the  young  mastha  for  the  chair  }  " 

"Aw,  lave  me  alone,"  answered  Billy  Quilleash,  with  a 
contemptuous  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Uncle  Billy's  proud  uncommon  of  the  mastha,"  whispered 
Davy  Fayle,  who  sat  meekly  on  a  form  near  the  door,  to  the 
man  who  sat  cross-legged  on  the  form  beside  him. 

"  It's  a  bit  free  them  chaps  is  making,"  said  old  Billy,  in  a 
confidential  undertone  to  Dan,  who  was  stretching  himself 
out  on  the  settle.  Then  rising  to  his  feet  with  gravity, 
"  GenTmen,"  said  Quilleash,  "  what  d'ye  say  now  to  Mistha 
Dan'l  Mylrea  for  the  elber-cheer  yander .'' " 

At  that  there  was  the  response  of  loud  raps  on  the  table 
with  the  heels  of  the  long  boots  swung  over  various  arms,  and 
with  several  clay  pipes  that  lost  their  heads  in  the  encounter. 
Old  Billy  resumed  his  seat  with  a  lofty  glance  of  patronage  at 
the  men  about  him,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  themselves, 
"  I  tould  ye  to  lave  it  all  to  me." 

"  Proud,  d'ye. say  ?  Look  at  him,"  muttered  the  fisherman 
sitting  by  Davy  Fayle. 

Dan  staggered  up,  and  shouldered  his  way  to  the  elbow- 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table.  He  had  no  sooner  taken  his 
seat  than  he  shouted  for  the  breakfast,  and  without  more  ado 
the  breakfast  was  lifted  direct  on  to  the  table  from  the  pans 
ai  d  boilers  that  simmered  on  the  hearth. 

First  came  the  broth,  well  loaded  with  barley  and  cabbage  ; 
then  suet  puddings ;  and  last  of  all  the  frying-pan  was  taken 
down  from  the  wall,  and  four  or  five  dozen  of  fresh  herrings 
were  made  to  grizzle  and  crackle  and  sputter  over  the  fire. 

Dan  ate  ravenously,  and  laughed  noisily,  and  talked  inces- 


THE   HERRING   BREAKFAST 

santly  as  he  ate.  The  men  at  first  caught  the  contagion  of  his 
boisterous  manners,  but  after  a  time  they  shook  their  tousled 
heads  and  laid  them  together  in  gravity,  and  began  to  repeat  in 
whispers,  '^  What's  agate  of  the  young  mastha,  at  all  at  all  ?  " 

Away  went  the  dishes,  away  went  the  cloth,  an  oil  lamp 
with  its  open  mouth — a  relic  of  some  monkish  sanctuary  of 
the  middle  ages — was  lifted  from  the  mantelshelf  and  put  on 
the  table  for  the  receipt  of  custom ;  a  brass  censer,  choked 
with  spills,  was  placed  beside  it ;  pipes  emerged  from  waist- 
coat pockets,  and  pots  of  liquor,  with  glasses  and  bottles,  came 
in  from  the  outer  bar. 

"  Is  it  heavy  on  the  liquor  you're  going  to  be,  Billy  .'* "  said 
Ned,  the  mate ;  and  old  Billy  replied  with  a  superior  smile 
and  the  lifting  up  of  a  whisky  bottle,  from  which  he  had  just 
drawn  the  cork. 

Then  came  the  toasts.  The  chairman  arose  amid  hip,  hip, 
hooraa  !  and  gave  "  Life  to  man  and  death  to  fish !"  and  Quil- 
leash  gave  "  Death  to  the  head  that  never  wore  hair  ! " 

Then  came  more  noise  and  more  liquor,  and  a  good  deal  of 
both  in  the  vicinity  of  the  chair.  Dan  struck  up  a  song.  He 
sang  "  Drink  to  me  only,"  and  the  noisy  company  were  at  first 
hushed  to  silence  and  then  melted  to  audible  sobs. 

"  Aw,  man,  the  voice  he  has,  any  way  ! " 

"  And  the  loud  it  is,  and  the  tender,  too,  and  the  way  he 
slidders  up  and  down,  and  no  squeaks  and  jumps." 

"  No,  no ;  nothin'  like  squeezin'  a  tune  out  of  an  ould  sow 
by  pulling  the  tail  at  her." 

Old  Billy  listened  to  this  dialogue  among  the  fisher-fellows 
about  him,  and  smiled  loftily.  "  It's  nothin',"  he  said  conde- 
scendingly, "  that's  nothin'.  You  should  hear  him  out  in  the 
boat,  when  we're  lying  at  anchor,  and  me  and  him  together, 
and  the  stars  just  makin'  a  peep,  and  the  moon,  and  the  mar- 
fire,  and  all  to  that,  and  me  and  him  lying  aft  and  smookin', 
and  having  a  glass  maybe,  but  nothin'  to  do  no  harm — that's 
the  when  you  should  hear  him.  Aw,  man  alive,  him  and  me's 
same  as  brothers." 

"  More  liquor  there,"  shouted  Dan,  climbing  with  difficulty 
to  his  feet. 

"  Ay,  look  here.  D'ye  hear  down  yander  }  Give  us  a  swipe 
o'  them  speerits.  Right.  More  liquor  for  the  chair ! "  said 
Billy  Quilleash.  "  And  for  some  one  besides  } — is  that  what 
they're  saying,  the  loblolly  boys  ?     Well,  look  here,  bad  ces 

87 


THE   DEEMSTER 

to  it,  of  coorse,  some  for  me,  too.  It's  terrible  good  for  the 
narves,  and  they're  telling  me  it's  morthal  good  for  steddyin' 
the  vice.  Going  to  sing  ?  Coorse,  coorse.  What's  that  from 
the  elber-cheer  .'*  Enemy,  eh  ?  Confound  it,  and  that's  true, 
though.  What's  that  it's  sayin'  ?  '  Who's  fool  enough  to  put 
the  enemy  into  his  mouth  to  stale  away  his  brains  ? '  Aw, 
now,  it's  the  good  ould  Book  that's  fine  at  summin'  it  all  up." 
Then  there  was  more  liquor  and  yet  more,  till  the  mouth 
of  the  monastic  lamp  ran  over  with  chinking  coin.  Old  Billy 
struck  up  his  song.  It  was  a  doleful  ditty  on  the  loss  of  the 
herring  fleet  on  one  St.  Matthew's  Day  not  long  before, 

"  An  hour  before  day, 

Tom  Grimshaw,  they  say, 
To  run  for  the  port  had  resolved  ; 

Himself  and  John  More 

Were  lost  in  that  hour, 
And  also  unfortunate  Kinved." 

The  last  three  lines  of  each  verse  were  repeated  by  the 
whole  company  in  chorus.  Doleful  as  the  ditty  might  be,  the 
men  gave  it  voice  with  a  heartiness  that  suggested  no  special 
sense  of  sorrow,  and  loud  as  were  the  voices  of  the  fisher- 
fellows,  Dan's  voice  was  yet  louder. 

"  Aw,  Dan,  man,  Dan,  man  alive,  Dan,"  the  men  whispered 
among  themselves.  "  What's  agate  of  Mastha  Dan  ?  it's 
more  than's  good,  man,  aw,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

Still  more  liquor  and  yet  more  noise,  and  then,  throvigh 
the  dense  fumes  of  tobacco  smoke,  old  Billy  Quilleash  could 
be  seen  struggling  to  his  feet.  "  Silence  ! "  he  shouted ; 
''aisy  there  ! "  and  he  lifted  up  his  glass.  "  Here's  to  Mistha 
Dan'l  Mylrea,  and  if  he's  not  going  amongst  the  parzons, 
bad  cess  to  them,  he's  going  amongst  the  Kays,  and  when 
he  gets  to  the  big  house  at  Castletown,  I'm  calkerlatin'  it'll 
be  all  up  with  the  lot  o'  them  parzons,  with  their  tithes  and 
their  censures,  and  their  customs  and  their  canons,  and  their 
regalashuns  agen  the  countin'  of  the  herrin',  and  all  the 
rest  of  their  messin'.  What  d'ye  say,  men  ?  '  Skulking 
cowards } '  Coorse,  and  right  sarved,  too,  as  I  say.  And 
what's  that  you're  grinning  and  winkin'  at,  Ned  Teare  ?  It's 
middUn'  free  you're  gettin'  with  the  mastha  anyhow,  and  if 
it  wasn't  for  me  he  wouldn't  bemane  himself  by  comin'  among 
the  like  of  you,  singin'  and  makin'  aisy.     Chaps,  fill  up  your 

88 


THE   HERRING  BREAKFAST 

glasses  every  man  of  you,  d'ye  hear?  Here's  to  the  best 
genTman  in  the  island,  bar  none — Mistha  Dan'l  Mylrea,  hip, 
hip,  hooraa ! " 

The  toast  was  responded  to  with  alacrity,  and  loud  shouts 
of  "  Dan'l  Mylrea — best  gen'l'man — bar  none." 

But  what  was  going  on  at  the  head  of  the  table  ?  Dan 
had  risen  from  the  elbow-chair ;  it  was  the  moment  for  him 
to  respond,  but  he  stared  wildly  around,  and  stood  there  in 
silence,  and  his  tongue  seemed  to  cleave  to  his  mouth.  Every 
eye  was  now  fixed  on  his  face,  and  that  face  quivered  and 
turned  white.  The  glass  he  had  held  in  his  hand  fell  from 
his  nerveless  fingers  and  broke  on  the  table.  Laughter  died 
on  every  lip,  and  the  voices  were  hushed.  At  last  Dan 
spoke ;  his  words  came  slowly,  and  fell  heavily  on  the  ear. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  "  you  have  been  drinking  my  health. 
You  call  me  a  good  fellow.  That's  wrong.  I'm  the  worst 
man  among  you.  Old  Billy  says  I'm  going  to  the  House  of 
Keys.  That's  wrong,  too.  Shall  I  tell  you  where  I  am 
going  }  Shall  I  tell  you  .'*  I'm  going  to  the  devil,"  and  then, 
amid  breathless  silence,  he  dropped  back  in  his  seat,  and 
buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

No  one  spoke.  The  fair  head  lay  on  the  table  among 
broken  pipes  and  the  refuse  of  spilled  liquor.  There  could 
be  no  more  drinking  that  morning.  Every  man  rose  to  his 
feet,  and,  picking  up  his  waterproofs  or  his  long  sea-boots, 
one  after  one  went  shambling  out.  The  room  was  dense  with 
smoke  ;  but  outside  the  air  was  light  and  free,  and  the  morn- 
ing sun  shone  brightly. 

"  Strange  now,  wasn't  it  .^  "  muttered  one  of  the  fellows. 

"  Strange  uncommon  !  " 

''  He's  been  middlin'  heavy  on  the  liquor  lately." 

"  And  he'd  never  no  right  to  strike  the  young  parzon,  and 
him  his  cousin,  too,  and  terrible  fond  of  him,  as  they're 
saying." 

"  Well,  well,  it's  middlin*  wicked  any  way." 

And  so  the  croakers  went  their  way.  In  two  minutes  more 
the  room  was  empty,  except  for  the  stricken  man,  who  lay 
there  with  hidden  face,  and  Davy  Fayle,  who,  with  big  tears 
glistening  in  his  eyes,  was  stroking  the  tangled  curls. 


89 


THE   DEEMSTER 

CHAPTEK   XII 

dan's  penance 

Dan  rose  to  his  feet  a  sobered  man,  and  went  out  of  the 
smoky  pothouse  without  a  word  to  any  one,  and  without 
lifting  his  bleared  and  bloodshot  eyes  to  any  face.  He 
took  the  lane  to  the  shore,  and  behind  him,  with  downcast 
eyes,  like  a  dog  at  the  heels  of  his  master,  Davy  Fayle 
slouched  along.  When  they  reached  the  shore  Dan  turned 
towards  Orris  Head,  walking  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the 
water's  edge.  Striding  over  the  sands,  the  past  of  his  child- 
hood came  back  to  him  with  a  sense  of  pain.  He  saw  him- 
self flying  along  the  beach  with  Ewan  and  Mona,  shouting'  at 
the  gull,  mocking  the  cormorant,  clambering  up  the  rocks  to 
where  the  long-necked  bird  laid  her  spotted  eggs,  and  the 
sea-pink  grew  under  the  fresh  grass  of  the  corries.  Under 
the  head  Dan  sat  on  a  rock  and  lifted  away  his  cap  from  his 
burning  forehead ;  but  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  his  soft 
hair. 

Dan  rose  again  with  a  new  resolve.  He  knew  now  what 
course  he  must  take.  He  would  go  to  the  Deemster,  confess 
to  the  outrage  of  which  he  had  been  guilty,  and  submit  to 
the  just  punishment  of  the  law.  With  quick  steps  he  strode 
back  over  the  beach,  and  Davy  followed  him  until  he  turned 
up  to  the  gates  of  the  new  Ballamona,  and  then  the  lad 
rambled  away  under  the  foot  of  Slieu  Dhoo.  Dan  found  the 
Deemster's  house  in  a  tumult.  Hommy-beg  was  rushing 
here  and  there,  and  Dan  called  to  him,  but  he  waved  his  arm 
and  shouted  something  in  reply,  whereof  the  purport  was  lost, 
and  then  disappeared.  Blind  Kerry  was  there,  and  when 
Dan  spoke  to  her  as  she  went  up  the  stairs,  he  could  gather 
nothing  from  her  hurried  answer  except  that  some  one  was 
morthal  bad,  as  the  saying  was,  and  in  another  moment  she 
too  had  gone.  Dan  stood  in  the  hall  with  a  sense  of  im- 
pending disaster.  What  had  happened  ?  A  dread  idea  struck 
him  at  that  moment  like  a  blow  on  the  brain.  The  sweat 
started  from  his  forehead.  He  could  bear  the  uncertainty 
no  longer,  and  had  set  foot  on  the  stairs  to  follow  the  blind 
woman  when  there  was  the  sound  of  a  light  step  descending. 

90 


DAN'S   PENANCE 

In  another  moment  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Mona.  She 
coloured  deeply,  and  his  head  fell  before  her. 

"  Is  it  Ewan  ?  "  he  said,  and  his  voice  came  like  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

^'  No,  his  wife,"  said  Mona. 

It  turned  out  that  not  long  after  daybreak  that  morning  the 
young  w  ife  of  Ewan,  who  had  slept  with  Mona,  had  awakened 
with  a  start,  and  the  sensation  of  having  received  a  heavy  blow 
on  the  forehead.  She  had  roused  Mona  and  told  her  what 
seemed  to  have  occurred.  They  had  looked  about  and  seen 
nothing  that  could  have  fallen.  They  had  risen  from  bed  and 
examined  the  room,  and  had  found  everything  as  it  had  been 
when  they  lay  doMTi.  The  door  was  shut  and  there  was  no  hood 
above  the  bed.  But  Mona  had  drawn  up  the  window  blind, 
and  then  she  had  seen,  clearly  marked  on  the  white  forehead  of 
Ewan's  young  wife,  a  httle  above  the  temple,  on  the  spot  where 
she  had  seemed  to  feel  the  blow,  a  streak  of  pale  colour  such  as 
might  have  been  made  by  the  scratch  of  a  thorn  that  had  not 
torn  the  skin.  It  had  been  a  perplexing  difficulty,  and  the 
girls  had  gone  back  to  bed,  and  talked  of  it  in  whispers  until 
they  had  fallen  asleep  in  each  other's  arms.  When  they  had 
awakened  again,  tjie  Deemster  was  rapping  at  their  door  to 
say  that  he  had  taken  an  early  breakfast,  that  he  was  going 
off  to  hold  his  court  at  Ramsey,  and  expected  to  be  back  at 
midday.  Then,  half  timidly,  Mona  had  told  her  father  of 
their  strange  experience,  but  he  had  bantered  them  on  their 
folly,  and  they  had  still  heard  his  laughter  when  he  had 
leapt  to  the  saddle  in  front  of  the  house,  and  was  canter- 
ing away  over  the  gravel.  Reassured  by  the  Deemster's 
unbelief,  the  girls  had  thrown  off  their  vague  misgivings, 
and  given  way  to  good  spirits.  Ewan's  young  wife  had 
said  that  all  morning  she  had  dreamt  of  her  husband,  and 
that  her  dreams  had  been  bright  and  happy.  They  had 
gone  down  to  breakfast,  but  scarcely  had  they  been  seated 
at  the  table  before  they  had  heard  the  cHck  of  the  gate  from 
the  road. 

Then  they  had  risen  together,  and  Ewan  had  come  up  the 
path  w  ith  a  white  bandage  about  his  head,  and  \^ith  a  streak 
of  blood  above  the  temple.  With  a  sharp  cry,  Ewan's  young 
wife  had  fallen  to  the  ground  insensible,  and  when  Ewan 
himself  had  come  into  the  house  they  had  carried  her  back 
to  bed.     There  she  was  at  that  moment,  and  from  a  peculiar 

91 


THE  DEEMSTER 

delicacy  of  her  health  at  the  time,  there  was  but  too  much 
reason  to  fear  that  the  shock  might  have  serious  results. 

All  this  Mona  told  to  Dan  from  where  she  stood  three  steps 
up  the  stairs,  and  he  listened  with  his  head  held  low,  one 
hand  gripping  the  stair-rail,  and  his  foot  pawing  the  mat  at 
the  bottom.  When  she  finished,  there  was  a  pause,  and  then 
there  came  from  overhead  a  long,  deep  moan  of  pain. 

Dan  lifted  his  face ;  its  sudden  pallor  was  startling. 
"  Mona,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  husky  in  his  throat,  "  do 
you  know  who  struck  Ewan  that  bloV  }  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then,  half  in  a  whisper, 
half  with  a  sob,  Mona  answered  that  she  knew.  It  had  not 
been  from  Ewan  himself,  but  by  one  of  the  many  tongues  of 
scandal  that  the  news  had  come  to  Ballamona. 

Dan  railed  at  himself  in  bitter  words,  and  called  God  to 
witness  that  he  had  been  a  curse  to  himself  and  every  one 
about  him.  Mona  let  the  torrent  of  his  self-reproach  spend 
itself,  and  then  she  said — 

"  Dan,  you  must  be  reconciled  to  Ewan." 

"  Not  yet,"  he  answered. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  sure  he  would  forgive  you,"  said  Mona,  and 
she  turned  about  as  if  in  the  act  of  going  back  to  seek  for  Ewan. 

Dan  grasped  her  hand  firmly.  "  No,"  he. said,  "  don't  heap 
coals  of  fire  on  my  head,  Mona ;  don't,  don't."  And  after  a 
moment,  with  a  calmer  manner,  "  I  must  see  the  Deemster 
first." 

Hardly  had  this  been  spoken  when  they  heard  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  gravel  path,  and  the  Deemster's  voice  calling  to 
Hommy-beg  as  he  threw  the  reins  over  the  post  near  the 
door  and  entered  the  house.  The  Deemster  was  in  unusual 
spirits,  and  slapped  Dan  on  the  back  and  laughed  as  he  went 
into  his  room.  Dan  followed  him,  and  Mona  crept  nervously 
to  the  open  door.  With  head  held  down,  Dan  told  what  had 
occurred.  The  Deemster  listened  and  laughed,  asked  further 
particulars  and  laughed  again,  threw  off  his  riding-boots  and 
leggings,  looked  knowingly  from  under  his  shaggy  brows,  and 
then  laughed  once  more. 

"  And  what  d'ye  say  you  want  me  to  do  for  you,  Danny 
veg  ?  "  he  asked,  with  one  side  of  his  wrinkled  face  twisted 
awry. 

"  To  punish  me,  sir,"  said  Dan. 

At  that  the  Deemster,  who  was  buckling  his  slippers,  threw 

92 


DAN'S   PENANCE 

himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  sent  a  shrill  peal  of  mocking 
laughter  through  the  house. 

Dan  was  unmoved.  His  countenance  did  not  bend  as  he 
said  slowly,  and  in  a  low  tone,  "  If  you  don't  do  it,  sir,  I  shall 
never  look  into  Ewan's  face  again." 

The  Deemster  fixed  his  buckles,  rose  to  his  feet,  slapped 
Dan  on  the  back,  said  "  Go  home,  man  veen,  go  home,"  and 
then  hurried  away  to  the  kitchen,  where  in  another  moment 
his  testy  voice  could  be  heard  directing  Honmiy-beg  to  put 
up  the  saddle  on  the  "  lath." 

Mona  looked  into  Dan's  face.  "Will  you  be  reconciled 
to  Ewan  now } "  she  said,  and  took  both  his  hands  and 
held  them. 

"No,"  he  answered  firmly,  "I  will  see  the  Bishop."  His 
eyes  were  dilated;  his  face,  that  had  hitherto  been  very 
mournful  to  see,  was  alive  with  a  strange  fire.  Mona  held 
his  hands  with  a  passionate  grasp. 

"Dan,"  she  said,  with  a  great  tenderness,  '^this  is  very, 
very  noble  of  you ;  this  is  like  our  Dan,  this " 

She  stopped;  she  trembled  and  glowed;  her  eyes  were 
close  to  his. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  like  that,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  his  hands,  and  at  the  next  instant  he  was 
gone  from  the  house. 

Dan  found  the  Bishop  at  Bishop's  Court,  and  told  him  all. 
The  Bishop  had  heard  the  story  already,  but  he  said  nothing 
of  that.  He  knew  when  Dan  hid  his  provocation  and  painted 
his  offence  at  its  blackest.  With  a  grave  face  he  listened 
while  Dan  accused  himself,  and  his  heart  heaved  within  him. 

"  It  is  a  serious  offence,"  he  said  ;  "  to  strike  a  minister  is 
a  grievous  offence,  and  the  Church  provides  a  censure." 

Dan  held  his  face  very  low,  and  clasped  his  hands  in  front 
of  him. 

"  The  censure  is  that  on  the  next  Sabbath  morning  follow- 
ing, in  the  presence  of  the  congregation,  you  shall  walk  up  the 
aisle  of  the  parish  church  from  the  porch  to  the  communion  be- 
hind the  minister,  who  shall  read  the  51st  Ps^lm  meantime." 

The  Bishop's  deep  tones  and*  quiet  manner  concealed  his 
strong  emotion,  and  Dan  went  out  without  another  word. 

This  was  Friday,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Ewan 
heard  what  had  passed  between  Dan  and  the  Deemster  and 
between  Dan  and  the  Bishop,  and  with  a  great  lump  in  his 

93 


THE   DEEMSTER 

throat  he  went  across  to  Bishop's  Court  to  pray  that  the 
censure  might  be  taken  off. 

"The  provocation  was  mine,  and  he  is  penitent,"  said 
Ewan ;  and  with  heaving  breast  the  Bishop  heard  him  out, 
and  then  shook  his  head. 

''  The  censures  of  the  Church  were  never  meant  to  pass  by 
the  house  of  the  Bishop,"  he  said. 

"  But  he  is  too  deeply  abased  already,"  said  Ewan. 

'^  The  offence  was  committed  in  public,  and  before  the  eyes 
of  all  men  the  expiation  must  be  made." 

"But  I,  too,  am  ashamed — think  of  it,  and  remove  the 
censure,"  said  Ewan,  and  his  voice  trembled  and  broke. 

The  Bishop  gazed  out  at  the  window  with  blurred  eyes 
that  saw  nothing.  "Ewan,"  he  said,  "it  is  God's  hand  on 
the  lad.     Let  it  be  ;  let  it  be." 

Next  day  the  Bishop  sent  his  sumner  round  the  parish, 
asking  that  every  house  might  send  one  at  least  to  the  parish 
church  next  morning. 

On  Sunday  Ewan's  young  wife  kept  her  bed ;  but  when 
Ewan  left  her  for  the  church  the  shock  to  her  nerves  seemed 
in  a  measure  to  have  passed  away.  There  was  still,  however, 
one  great  disaster  to  fear,  and  Mona  remained  at  the  bedside. 

The  meaning  of  the  sumner's  summons  had  eked  out,  and 
long  before  the  hour  of  service  the  parish  church  was  crowded. 
The  riff-raff  that  never  came  to  church  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end,  except  to  celebrate  the  Oiel  Verree,  were  there 
with  eager  eyes.  While  Will-as-Thom  tolled  the  bell  from  the 
rope  suspended  in  the  porch  there  was  a  low  buzz  of  gossip, 
but  when  the  bell  ceased  its  hoarse  clangour,  and  Will-as- 
Thom  appeared  with  his  pitch-pipe  in  the  front  of  the  gallery, 
there  could  be  heard  in  the  silence  that  followed  over  the 
crowded  church  the  loud  tick  of  the  old  wooden  clock  in  front 
of  him. 

Presently  from  the  porch  there  came  a  low  tremulous  voice 
reading  the  Psalm  that  begins,  "Have  mercy  upon  me,  O 
God,  after  Thy  great  goodness  :  according  to  the  multitude  of 
Thy  mercies  do  away  mine  offences." 

Then  the  people  who  sat  in  front  turned  about,  and  those 
who  sat  at  the  side  strained  across,  and  those  who  sat  above 
craned  forward. 

Ewan  was  walking  slowly  up  the  aisle  in  his  surplice,  with 
his  pale  face  and  scarred  forehead  bent  low  over  the  book  in 

94 


DAN'S   PENANCE 

his  hand,  and  close  behind  him,  towering  above  him  in  his 
great  stature,  with  head  held  down,  but  with  a  steadfast  gaze, 
his  hat  in  his  hands,  his  step  firm  and  resolute,  Dan  Mylrea 
strode  along. 

There  was  a  dead  hush  over  the  congregation. 

"  Wash  me  throughly  from  my  wickedness :  and  cleanse 
me  from  my  sin.  For  I  acknowledge  my  faults ;  and  my  sin 
is  ever  before  me." 

The  tremulous  voice  rose  and  fell,  and  nothing  else  broke 
the  silence  except  the  uncertain  step  of  the  reader,  and  the 
strong  tread  of  the  penitent  behind  him. 

"Against  Thee  only  have  I  sinned,  and  done  this  evil  in 
Thy  sight " 

At  this  the  tremulous  voice  deepened,  and  stopped,  and 
went  on  and  stopped  again,  and  when  the  words  came  once 
more  they  came  in  a  deep,  low  sob,  and  the  reader's  head  fell 
into  his  breast. 

Not  until  the  Psalm  came  to  an  end,  and  Ewan  and  Dan 
had  reached  the  communion,  and  the  vicar  had  begun  the 
morning  prayer,  and  Will-as-Thom  had  sent  out  a  blast  from 
his  pitch-pipe,  was  the  hard  tension  of  that  moment  broken. 

When  the  morning  service  ended,  the  Deemster  rose  from 
his  pew  and  hurried  down  the  aisle.  As  usual,  he  was  the 
first  to  leave  the  church.  The  ghostly  smile  with  which  he 
had  witnessed  the  penance  that  had  brought  tears  to  the  eyes 
of  others  was  still  on  the  Deemster's  lip,  and  a  chuckle  was 
in  his  throat  when  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard  he  met 
Hommy-beg,  whose  face  was  livid  from  a  long  run,  and  who 
stood  for  an  instant  panting  for  breath. 

"  Well,  well,  well  ?  "  said  the  Deemster,  sending  the  words 
like  small  shot  into  Hommy-beg's  deaf  ear. 

"Terrible,  terrible,  terrible,"  said  Hommy-beg,  and  he 
lifted  his  hands. 

"  What  is  it }     What .?     What  ?  " 

"  The  young  woman-body  is  dead  in  child-bed." 

Then  the  ghostly  smile  fled  from  the  Deemster's  face. 


05 


THE   DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  Xm 

HOW    EWAN    MOURNED    FOR    HIS    WIFE 

What  passed  at  the  new  Ballamona  on  that  morning  of  Dan's 
penance  was  very  pitiful.  There  in  the  death-chamber,  already 
darkened,  lay  Ewan's  young  wife,  her  eyes  lightly  closed,  her 
girlish  features  composed,  and  a  faint  tinge  of  colour  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  breast  was  half  open,  and  her  beautiful  head 
lay  in  a  pillow  of  her  soft  brown  hair.  One  round  arm  was 
stretched  over  the  counterpane,  and  the  delicate  fingers  were 
curved  inwards  until  the  thumb-nail,  like  an  acorn,  rested  on 
the  inner  rim  of  a  ring.  Quiet,  peaceful,  veiy  sweet  and 
tender,  she  lay  there  like  one  who  slept.  After  a  short,  sharp 
pang  she  had  died  gently,  without  a  struggle,  almost  without 
a  sigh,  merely  closing  her  eyes  as  one  who  was  weary,  and 
drawing  a  long,  deep  breath.  In  dying  she  had  given  pre- 
mature birth  to  a  child,  a  girl,  and  the  infant  was  alive,  and 
was  taken  from  the  mother  at  the  moment  of  death. 

When  the  Deemster  entered  the  room  with  a  face  of  great 
pallor  and  eyes  of  fear,  Mona  was  standing  by  the  bed-head 
gazing  down,  but  seeing  nothing.  The  Deemster  felt  the  pulse 
of  the  arm  over  the  counterpane  with  fingers  that  trembled 
visibly.  Then  he  shot  away  from  the  room,  and  was  no  more 
seen  that  day.  The  vicar,  the  child-wife's  father,  came  with 
panting  breath  and  stood  by  the  bedside  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turned  aside  in  silence.  Ewan  came,  too,  and  behind  him 
Dan  walked  to  the  door  and  there  stopped,  and  let  Ewan  enter 
the  chamber  of  his  great  sorrow  alone.  Not  a  word  was  said 
until  Ewan  went  down  on  his  knees  by  the  side  of  his  wife, 
and  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her  lips,  still  warm, 
with  his  own  far  colder  lips,  and  called  to  her  softly  by  her 
name,  as  though  she  slept  gently,  and  must  not  be  awakened 
too  harshly,  and  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  called  again  in  a 
tenderer  tone  that  brushed  the  upturned  face  like  a  caress — 

"  Aileen  !     Aileen  !     Aileen  ! " 

Mona  covered  her  eyes  in  her  hands,  and  Dan,  where  he 
stood  at  the  door,  turned  his  head  away. 

"  Aileen  !     Ailee  !     Ailee  !     My  Ailee  ! " 

The  voice  went  like  a  whisper  and  a  kiss  into  the  deaf  ear, 

96 


HOW  EWAN   MOURNED   FOR   HIS   WIFE 

and  only  one  other  sound  was  heard,  and  that  was  the  faint 
cry  of  an  infant  from  a  room  below. 

Ewan  raised  his  head  and  seemed  to  listen ;  he  paused  and 
looked  at  the  faint  colour  in  the  quiet  cheeks ;  he  put  his 
hand  lightly  on  the  heart,  and  looked  long  at  the  breast  that 
did  not  heave.  Then  he  drew  his  arms  very  slowly  away,  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  as  one  dazed,  like  a  man  whose 
brain  is  benumbed,  and  with  the  vacant  light  still  in  his  eyes 
he  touched  Mona  on  the  arm  and  drew  her  hand  from  her 
eyes,  and  he  said,  as  one  who  tells  you  something  that  you 
could  not  think,  "  She  is  dead  ! " 

Mona  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  at  sight  of  it  the  tears 
rained  down  her  own.  Dan  had  stepped  into  the  room 
noiselessly,  and  came  behind  Ewan,  and  when  Ewan  felt  his 
presence,  he  turned  to  Dan  with  the  same  vacant  look,  and 
repeated  in  the  same  empty  tone,  "  She  is  dead  ! " 

And  never  a  tear  came  into  Ewan's  eyes  to  soften  their 
look  of  dull  torpor ;  never  again  did  he  stretch  out  his  arms 
to  the  silent  fonn  beneath  him  ;  only  with  dazed,  dry  eyes,  he 
looked  down,  and  said  once  more,  "  She  is  dead  ! " 

Dan  could  bear  up  no  longer ;  his  heart  was  choking,  and 
he  went  out  without  a  word. 

It  was  the  dread  silence  of  feeling  that  was  frozen,  but  the 
thaw  came  in  its  time.  They  laid  out  the  body  of  the  young 
wife  in  the  darkened  room,  and  Ewan  went  away  and  rambled 
over  the  house  all  day  long,  and  when  night  fell  in,  and  the 
lighted  candles  were  set  in  the  death-chamber,  and  all  in 
Ballamona  were  going  off  to  bed,  Ewan  was  still  rambling 
aimlessly  from  room  to  room.  He  was  very  quiet,  and  he 
spoke  little,  and  did  not  weep  at  all.  In  the  middle  of  that 
night  the  Deemster  opened  his  bedroom  door  and  listened, 
and  Ewan's  step  was  still  passing  from  room  to  room,  and 
Mona  heard  the  same  restless  footfall  in  every  break  of  her 
fitful  sleep.  But  later  on,  in  the  dark  hour  that  comes  before 
day,  the  Deemster  opened  his  door  and  listened  again,  and  then 
all  was  quiet  in  the  house.  "  He  has  gone  to  bed  at  last," 
thought  the  Deemster ;  but  in  the  early  morning  as  he  passed 
by  Ewan's  room  he  found  the  door  open,  and  saw  that  the  bed 
had  not  been  slept  in. 

The  second  day  went  by  like  the  first,  and  the  next  night 
like  the  former  one,  and  again  in  the  dead  of  night  the 

97 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Deemster  opened  his  door  and  heard  Ewan's  step.  Once 
more  in  the  dark  hour  that  goes  before  the  day  he  opened 
his  door  and  hstened  again,  and  all  was  quiet  as  before. 
''  Surely  he  is  in  bed  now/'  thought  the  Deemster.  He  was 
turning  back  into  his  own  room  when  he  felt  a  sudden  im- 
pulse to  go  to  Ewan's  room  first  and  see  if  it  was  as  he  supposed. 
He  went,  and  the  door  was  open  and  Ewan  was  not  there,  and 
again  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 

The  Deemster  crept  back  on  tiptoe,  and  a  gruesome  feeling 
took  hold  of  him.  He  could  not  lie,  and  no  sleep  had  come 
near  his  wakeful  eyes,  so  he  waited  and  listened  for  that  un- 
quiet beat  of  restless  feet,  but  the  sound  did  not  come.  Then, 
as  the  day  was  breaking  over  the  top  of  Slieu  Dhoo,  and  all 
the  Curraghs  around  lay  veiled  in  mist,  and  far  away  to  the 
west  a  deep  line  stretched  across  where  the  dark  sea  lay  with 
the  lightening  sky  above  it,  the  Deemster  opened  his  door 
yet  again,  and  went  along  the  corridor  steadily  until  he  came 
to  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  body  was.  "  Perhaps 
he  is  sitting  with  her,"  he  thought  with  awe,  and  he  turned 
the  handle.  But  when  the  door  swung  open  the  Deemster 
paused ;  a  faint  sound  broke  the  silence ;  it  was  a  soft  and 
measured  breathing  frcm  within.  Quivering  with  dread,  the 
Deemster  stepped  into  the  death-chamber,  and  his  head 
turned  rigidly  towards  the  bed.  There,  in  the  gloom  of  the 
dawn  that  came  over  the  light  of  the  last  candle  that  flickered 
in  its  socket,  Ewan  lay  outstretched  by  the  side  of  the  white, 
upturned  face  of  his  dead  wife,  and  his  hand  lay  on  her  hand, 
and  he  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

To  the  Deemster  it  was  as  if  a  spirit  had  passed  before  his 
face,  and  the  hair  of  his  flesh  stood  up. 

They  buried  Ewan's  young  wife  side  by  side  with  his 
mother  under  the  elder-tree  (now  thick  with  clusters  of  the 
green  berry)  by  the  wall  of  the  churchyard  that  stood  over 
by  the  sea.  The  morning  was  fine,  but  the  sun  shone  dimly 
through  a  crust  of  hot  air  that  gathered  and  slumbered  and 
caked  above.  Ewan  passed  through  all  without  a  word,  or 
a  sigh,  or  a  tear.  But  when  the  company  returned  to  the 
Deemster's  house,  and  Mona  spoke  to  Ewan  and  he  answered 
her  without  an}'  show  of  feeling,  and  Dan  told  him  of  his 
own  remorse  and  accused  himself  of  every  disaster,  and  still 
Ewan  gave  no  sign,  but  went  in  and  out  among  them  all  with 
the  vacant  light  in  his  eyes,  then  the  Bishop  whispered  to 

9S 


WRESTLING  WITH   FATE 

Mona,  and  she  went  out  and  presently  came  again,  and  in 
her  arms  was  the  infant  in  its  white  linen  clothes. 

The  sun  was  now  hidden  by  the  heavy  cloud  overhead,  and 
against  the  window-panes  at  that  moment  there  was  a  light 
pattering  of  raindrops.  Ewan  had  watched  with  his  vacant 
gaze  when  Mona  went  out,  but  when  she  came  again  a  new 
light  seemed  to  come  into  his  eyes,  and  he  stepped  up  to 
her  and  looked  down  at  the  little  face  that  was  sleeping 
softly  against  her  breast.  Then  he  put  out  his  arms  to  take 
the  child,  and  Mona  passed  it  to  him,  and  he  held  it,  and  sat 
down  with  it,  and  all  at  once  the  tears  came  into  his  dry  eyes 
and  he  wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WRESTLING    WITH    FATE 

So  far  as  concerned  the  Deemster,  this  death  of  Ewan*s  wife 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Had  she  not  died  under  the 
roof  of  the  new  Ballamona  ?  Was  it  not  by  the  strangest  of 
accidents  that  she  had  died  there,  and  not  in  her  own  home  ? 
Had  she  not  died  in  childbed  ?  Did  not  everything  attend- 
ing her  death  suggest  the  force  of  an  irresistible  fate  ?  More 
than  twenty  years  ago  the  woman  Kerruish,  the  mother  of 
Mally  Kerruish,  had  cursed  this  house,  and  said  that  no  life 
would  come  to  it  but  death  would  come  with  it. 

And  for  more  than  twenty  years  the  Deemster  had  done 
his  best  to  laugh  at  the  prediction  and  to  forget  it.  Who 
was  he  that  he  should  be  the  victim  of  fear  at  the  sneezing 
of  an  old  woman  ?  What  was  he  that  he  should  not  be 
master  of  his  fate  ?  But  what  had  occurred  ?  For  more  than 
twenty  years  one  disturbing  and  distinct  idea  had  engrossed 
him.  In  all  his  waking  hours  it  exasperated  him,  and  even 
in  his  hours  of  sleep  it  lay  heavy  at  the  back  of  his  brain  as  a 
dull  feeling  of  dread.  On  the  bench,  in  the  saddle,  at  table, 
alone  by  the  winter's  fire,  alone  in  summer  walks,  the 
obstinate  idea  was  always  there.  And  nothing  but  death 
seemed  likely  to  shake  it  off. 

Often  he  laughed  at  it,  in  his  long,  lingering,  nervous 
laugh ;  but  it  was  a  chain  that  was  slowly  tightening  about 
him.     Everything  was  being  fulfilled.     First  came  the  death 

99 


THE   DEEMSTER 

of  his  wife  at  the  birth  of  Mona,  and  now,  after  an  interval  of 
twenty  years,  the  death  of  his  son's  wife  at  the  birth  of  her 
child.  In  that  stretch  of  time  he  had  become  in  his  own 
view  a  childless  man ;  his  hopes  had  been  thwarted  in  the 
son  on  whom  alone  his  hopes  had  been  built ;  the  house  he 
had  founded  was  but  an  echoing  vault ;  the  fortune  he  had 
reared,  an  empty  bubble.  He  was  accursed  ;  God  had  heard 
the  woman's  voice  ;  he  looked  too  steadily  at  the  facts  to 
mistake  them,  and  let  the  incredulous  fools  laugh  if  they 
liked. 

When,  twenty  years  before,  the  Deemster  realised  that  he 
was  the  slave  of  one  tyrannical  idea,  he  tried  to  break  the 
fate  that  hung  over  him.  He  bought  up  the  cottage  on  the 
Brew,  and  turned  the  woman  Kerruish  into  the  roads.  Then 
he  put  his  foot  on  every  sign  of  superstitious  belief  that  came 
in  his  way  as  judge. 

But  not  with  such  brave  shows  of  unbelief  could  he  conquer 
his  one  disturbing  idea.  His  nature  had  never  been  kindly, 
but  now  there  grew  upon  him  an  obstinate  hatred  of  every- 
body. This  was  in  the  days  when  his  children,  Ewan  and 
Mona,  lived  in  the  cosy  nest  at  Bishop's  Court.  If  in  these 
days  any  man  mentioned  the  Kerruishes  in  the  Deemster's 
presence,  he  showed  irritation,  but  he  kept  his  ears  open  for 
every  syllable  said  about  them.  He  knew  all  their  history  ; 
he  knew  when  the  girl  Mally  fled  away  from  the  island  on 
the  day  of  Ewan's  christening ;  he  knew  by  what  boat  she 
sailed ;  he  knew  where  she  settled  herself  in  England ;  he 
knew  when  her  child  was  bom,  and  when,  in  terror  at  the 
unfulfilled  censure  of  the  Church  that  hung  over  her  (separat- 
ing her  from  all  communion  with  God's  people  in  life  or  hope 
of  redemption  in  death),  she  came  back  to  the  island,  drawn 
by  an  irresistible  idea,  her  child  at  her  breast,  to  work  out 
her  penance  on  the  scene  of  her  shame. 

Thereafter  he  watched  her  daily,  and  knew  her  life.  She 
had  been  taken  back  to  work  at  the  net-looms  of  Kinvig,  the 
Peeltown  netmaker,  and  she  lived  with  her  mother  at  the 
cottage  over  the  Head,  and  there  in  poverty  she  brought  up 
her  child,  her  boy,  Jarvis  Kerruish,  as  she  had  called  him. 
If  any  pointed  at  her  and  laughed  with  cruelty;  if  any 
pretended  to  sympathise  with  her  and  said,  with  a  snigger, 
''  The  first  error  is  always  forgiven,  Mally  woman ; "  if  any 
mentioned  the  Deemster  himself,  and  said,  with  a  wink,  "  I'm 

100 


WRESTLING  WITH   FATE   \     ;;:\'';.;:? 

thinking  it  terrible  strange,  Mally,  that  you  don't  take  a  slue 
round  and  put  a  sight  on  him ; "  if  any  said  to  her  when  she 
bought  a  new  garment  out  of  her  scant  earnings,  a  gown  or 
even  a  scarf  or  bit  of  bright  ribbon  such  as  she  loved  in  the 
old  days,  "  Dearee  dear !  I  thought  you  wouldn't  take  rest, 
but  be  up  and  put  a  sight  on  the  ould  crooky  " — the  Deemster 
knew  it  all.  He  saw  the  ruddy,  audacious  girl  of  twenty  sink 
into  the  pallid  slattern  of  thirty,  without  hope,  without  joy  in 
life,  and  with  only  a  single  tie. 

And  the  Deemster  found  that  there  grew  upon  him  daily 
his  old  malicious  feeling ;  but,  so  far  as  concerned  his  outer 
bearing,  matters  took  a  turn  on  the  day  he  came  upon  tlie 
boys,  Dan  Mylrea  and  Jarvis  Kerruish,  fighting  in  the  road. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  boy  Jarvis.  "  Who  is 
he?"  he  had  asked,  and  the  old  woman  Kerruish  had  made 
answer,  "  Don't  you  know  him.  Deemster  }  Do  you  never  see 
a  face  like  that  ?     Not  when  you  look  in  the  glass  ?  " 

There  was  no  need  to  look  twice  into  a  mirror  like  the  face 
of  that  lad  to  know  whose  son  he  was. 

The  Deemster  went  home  to  Ballamona,  and  thought  over 
the  fierce  encounter.  He  could  tolerate  no  longer  the  living 
reproach  of  this  boy's  presence  within  a  few  miles  of  his  own 
house,  and,  by  an  impulse  no  better  than  humbled  pride,  he 
went  back  to  the  cottage  of  the  Kerruishes  at  night,  alone 
and  afoot.  The  cottage  was  a  lone  place  on  the  top  of  a  bare 
heath,  with  the  bleak  sea  in  front  and  the  purple  hills  behind, 
and  with  a  fenceless  cart-track  leading  up  to  it.  A  lead-mine, 
known  as  the  Cross  Vein,  had  been  worked  there  forty  years 
before.  The  shaft  was  still  open,  and  now  full  of  dark,  foul 
water  almost  to  the  surface.  One  roofless  wall  showed  where 
the  gear  had  stood,  and  under  the  shelter  of  this  wall  there 
crouched  a  low  thatched  tool-shed,  having  a  door  and  a  small 
window.  This  was  the  cottage ;  and  until  old  Mrs.  Kerruish 
had  brought  there  her  few  rickety  sticks  when,  by  the 
Deemster's  orders,  they  had  been  thrown  into  the  road,  none 
had  ever  occupied  the  tool-shed  as  a  house. 

The  door  was  open,  and  the  Deemster  stepped  in.  One  of 
the  women,  old  Mrs.  Kerruish,  was  sitting  on  a  stool  by  the 
fire — it  was  a  fire  of  sputtering  hazel  sticks — shredding  some 
scraps  of  green  vegetables  into  a  pot  of  broth  that  swung 
from  the  iron  hook  of  the  chimney.  The  other  woman,  Mally, 
was  doing  something  in  the  dark  crib  of  a  sleeping-room,  shut 

101 


^  '^^  "^ ' "- "  i  ■     ;  A  '^  '^^^   DEEMSTER 
dW  from  the   living  room  by  a  wooden  partition  like  the 
stanchion-board  of  a  stable.     The  boy  was  asleep;  his  soft 
breathing  came  from  the  dark  crib. 

"  Mrs.  Kerruish/'  said  the  Deemster,  "  I  am  willing  to  take 
the  lad,  and  rear  him,  and  when  the  time  comes  to  set  him  to 
business,  and  give  him  a  start  in  life." 

Mrs.  Kerruish  had  risen  stiffly  from  her  stool,  and  her  face 
was  set  hard. 

''Think  of  it,  woman,  think  of  it,  and  don't  answer  in 
haste,"  said  the  Deemster. 

"  We'd  have  to  be  despard  hard  put  to  for  a  bite  and  a  sup 
before  we'd  take  anything  from  you.  Deemster,"  said  the  old 
woman. 

The  Deemster's  quick  eyes,  under  the  shaggy  grey  brows, 
glanced  about  the  room.  It  was  a  place  of  poverty,  descend- 
ing to  squalor.  The  floor  was  of  the  bare  earth  trodden  hard^ 
the  roof  was  of  the  bare  thatch,  with  here  and  there  a  lath 
pushed  between  the  unhewn  spars  to  keep  it  up,  and  here 
and  there  a  broken  patch  dropping  hay-seed. 

"You  are  desperate  hard  put  to,  woman,"  said  the  Deem- 
ster, and  at  that  Mally  herself  came  out  of  the  sleeping-crib. 
Her  face  was  thin  and  pale,  and  her  bleared  eyes  had  lost  their 
sharp  light ;  it  was  a  countenance  without  one  ray  of  hope. 

"  Stop,  mother,"  she  said ;  "  let  us  hear  what  the  Deemster 
has  to  offer." 

"  Offer  ?  Offer  }  "  the  old  woman  rapped  out.  "  You've 
had  enough  of  the  Deemster's  offers,  I'm  thinking." 

"Be  quiet,  mother,"  said  Mally;  and  then  she  turned  to 
the  Deemster  and  said,  "  Well,  sir,  and  what  is  it }  " 

"  Aw,  very  nate  and  amazing  civil  to  dirks  like  that — go 
on,  girl,  go  on,"  said  the  old  woman,  tossing  her  head  and 
hand  in  anger  towards  Mally. 

"  Mother,  this  is  my  concern,  I'm  thinking — what  is  it,  sir. J* " 

But  the  old  woman's  wrath  at  her  daughter's  patience  was 
not  to  be  kept  down.  "  Behold  ye  !  "  she  said,  "  it's  my  own 
girl  that's  after  telling  me  before  strangers  that  I've  not  a 
farthing  at  me,  and  me  good  for  nothing  at  working,  and  only 
fit  to  hobble  about  on  a  stick,  and  fix  the  house  tidy  maybe, 
and  to  have  no  say  in  nothing — go  on,  och,  go  on,  girl." 

The  Deemster  explained  his  proposal.  It  was  that  the  boy 
Jarvis  should  be  given  entirely  into  his  control,  and  be  no  more 
known  by  his  mother  and  his  mother's  mother,  and  perhaps  no 

102 


WRESTLING  WITH   FATE 

more  seen  or  ciairaed  or  acknowledged  by  them,  and  that  the 
Deemstei  should  provide  for  him  and  see  him  started  in  life. 

Mrs.  Kerruish's  impatience  knew  no  bounds.  "  My  gough  !  " 
she  cried,  "  my  gough,  my  gough  ! "  But  Mally  listened 
and  reflected.  Her  spirit  was  broken,  and  she  was  think- 
ing of  her  poverty.  Her  mother  was  now  laid  aside  by  rheu- 
matism, and  could  earn  nothing,  and  she  herself  worked 
piecework  at  the  net-making — so  much  for  a  piece  of  net  a 
hundred  yards  long  by  two  hundred  meshes  deep — toiling 
without  heart  from  eight  to  eight,  and  earning  four,  five,  and 
six  shillings  a  week.  And  if  there  was  a  want,  her  boy  felt  it. 
She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  after  a  moment  the  Deemster 
turned  to  the  door.     "  Think  of  it,"  he  said  ;  "  think  of  it." 

"  Hurroo  !  hurroo  !  "  cried  the  old  woman  derisively  from 
her  stool,  her  untamable  soul  aflame  with  indignation. 

"  Be  quiet,  mother,"  said  Mally,  and  the  hopelessness  that 
had  spoken  from  her  eyes  seemed  then  to  find  a  way  into 
her  voice. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Jarvis  Kerruish  was  sent  to  a  school 
at  Liverpool,  and  remained  there  three  years,  and  then  be- 
came a  clerk  in  the  counting-house  of  Benas  Brothers,  of  the 
Goree  Piazza,  ostensibly  African  merchants,  really  English 
money-lenders.  Jarvis  did  r  ot  fret  at  the  loss  of  his  mother, 
and  of  course  he  never  wrote  to  her  ;  but  he  addressed  a  care- 
ful letter  to  the  Deemster  twice  a  year,  beginning  "  Honoured 
sir,"  and  ending  "  Yours,  with  much  respect,  most  obediently." 

Mally  had  miscalculated  her  self-command.  If  she  had 
thought  of  her  poverty,  it  had  been  because  she  had  thought 
of  her  boy  as  well.  He  would  be  lifted  above  it  all  if  she  could 
but  bring  herself  to  part  with  him.  She  wrought  up  her  feel- 
ings to  the  sacrifice,  and  gave  away  her  son,  and  sat  down  as 
a  broken-spirited  and  childless  woman.  Then  she  realised  the 
price  she  had  to  pay.  The  boy  had  been  the  cause  of  her 
shame,  but  he  had  been  the  centre  of  her  pride  as  well.  If  she 
had  been  a  hopeless  woman  before,  she  was  now  a  heartless  one. 
Little  by  little  she  fell  into  habits  of  idleness  and  intemperance. 
Before  young  Jarvis  sat  in  his  frilled  shirt  on  the  stool  in  the 
Goree  Piazza,  and  before  the  down  had  begun  to  shoAv  on  his 
lean  cheeks,  his  mother  was  a  lost  and  abandoned  woman. 

But  not  yet  had  the  Deemster  broken  his  fate.  When 
Ewan  disappointed  his  hopes  and  went  into  the  Church  and 
married  without  his  sanction  or  knowledge,  it  seemed  to  him 

103 


THE   DEEMSTER 

that  the  chain  was  gradually  tightening  about  him.  Then  the 
Deemster  went  over  once  more  to  the  cottage  at  the  Cross 
Vein  alone,  and  in  the  night. 

"  Mrs.  Kerruish,"  he  said,  "  I  am  willing  to  allow  you  six 
pounds  a  year  pension,  and  I  will  pay  it  in  three  pound-notes 
on  Lady  Day  and  Martinmas,"  and  putting  his  first  payment 
on  the  table,  he  turned  about,  and  was  gone  before  the  rheu- 
matic old  body  could  twist  in  her  chair. 

The  Deemster  had  just  made  his  third  visit  to  the  cottage 
at  the  Cross  Vein,  and  left  his  second  payment,  when  the  death 
of  Ewan's  young  wife  came  as  a  thunderbolt  and  startled  him 
to  the  soul.  For  days  and  nights  thereafter  he  went  about  like 
a  beaten  horse,  trembling  to  the  very  bone.  He  had  resisted 
the  truth  for  twenty  years ;  he  had  laughed  at  it  in  his  long 
lingering  laugh  at  going  to  bed  at  night  and  at  rising  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  he  had  ridiculed  superstition  in  others,  and  punished  it 
when  he  could  ;  he  was  the  judge  of  the  island,  and  she  through 
whose  mouth  his  fate  fell  upon  him  was  a  miserable  ruin  cast 
aside  on  life's  highway ;  but  the  truth  would  be  resisted  no 
longer :  the  house  over  his  head  was  accursed — accursed  to 
him,  and  to  his  children,  and  to  his  children's  children. 

The  Deemster's  engrossing  idea  became  a  dominating  terror. 
Was  there  no  way  left  to  him  to  break  the  fate  that  hung  over 
him  "^  None  }  The  Deemster  revolved  the  problem  night  and 
day,  and  meantime  lived  the  life  of  the  damned.  At  length 
he  hit  on  a  plan,  and  then  peace  seemed  to  come  to  him,  a 
poor  paltering  show  of  peace,  and  he  went  about  no  longer  like 
a  beaten  and  broken  horse.  His  project  was  a  strange  one  ; 
it  was  the  last  that  prudence  would  have  suggested,  but  the 
first  that  the  evil  spirit  of  his  destiny  could  have  hoped  for — 
it  was  to  send  to  Liverpool  for  Jarvis  Kerruish,  and  establish 
him  in  Ballamona  as  his  son. 

In  that  project  the  hand  of  his  fate  was  strongly  upon  him ; 
he  could  not  resist  it ;  he  seemed  to  yield  himself  to  its 
power ;  he  made  himself  its  willing  victim  ;  he  was  even  as 
Saul,  when  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  had  gone  from  him  and 
an  evil  spirit  troubled  him,  sending  for  the  anointed  son  of 
Jesse  to  play  on  the  harp  to  him  and  to  supplant  him  on  the 
throne. 


104 


THE   LIE   THAT  EWAN  TOLD 
CHAPTER  Xy 

THE    LIE    THAT    EWAN    TOLD 

It  was  not  for  long  that  Dan  bore  the  signs  of  contrition.  As 
soon  as  Ewan's  pale  face  had  lost  the  weight  of  its  gloom, 
Dan's  curly  poll  knew  no  more  of  trouble.  He  followed  the 
herrings  all  through  that  season,  grew  brown  with  the  sun  and 
the  briny  air,  and  caught  the  sea's  laughter  in  his  rollicking 
voice.  He  drifted  into  some  bad  habits  from  which  he  had 
hitherto  held  himself  in  check.  Every  morning  when  the 
boats  ran  into  harbour,  and  Teare,  the  mate,  and  Crennel, 
the  cook,  stayed  behind  to  sell  the  fish,  Dan  and  old  Billy 
Quilleash  trooped  up  to  the  "  Three  Legs  of  Man  "  together. 
There  Dan  was  made  much  of,  and  the  lad's  spirit  was  not 
proof  against  the  poor  flattery.  It  was  M astha  Dan  here,  and 
Mastha  Dan  there,  and  Where  is  Mastha  Dan.^  and  What 
does  Mastha  Dan  say  ?  and  great  shoutings,  and  tearings,  and 
sprees ;  and  all  the  time  the  old  cat  with  the  whiskers  who 
kept  the  pothouse  was  scoring  up  against  Dan  at  the  back  of 
the  cupboard  door. 

Did  the  Bishop  know  ?  Know  ?  Did  ever  a  young  fellow 
go  to  the  dogs  but  some  old  woman  of  either  sex  found  her 
way  to  the  very  ear  that  ought  not  to  be  tormented  with  Job's 
comfort,  and  whisper,  "  Aw,  dear  !  aw,  dear  ! "  and  "  Lawk-a- 
day  ! "  and  "  I'm  the  last  to  bring  bad  newses,  as  the  saying 
is,"  and  ^'  Och,  and  it's  a  pity,  and  him  a  fine,  brave  young 
fellow  too  !  "  and  "  I  wouldn't  have  told  it  on  no  account  to 
another  living  soul ! " 

The  Bishop  said  little,  and  tried  not  to  hear;  but  when 
Dan  would  have  hoodwinked  him,  he  saw  through  the  device 
as  the  sun  sees  through  glass.  Dan  never  left  his  father's 
presence  without  a  sense  of  shame  that  was  harder  to  bear 
than  any  reproach  would  have  been.  Something  patient  and 
trustful,  and  strong  in  hope,  and  stronger  in  love  seemed  to 
go  out  from  the  Bishop's  silence  to  Dan's  reticence.  Dan 
would  slink  off  with  the  bearing  of  a  whipped  hound,  or,  per- 
haps, with  a  muttered  curse  under  his  teeth,  and  always  with 
a  stern  resolve  to  pitch  himself  or  his  cronies  straightway  into 
the  sea.  The  tragical  purpose  usually  lasted  him  over  the 
8  105 


THE   DEEMSTER 

short  mile  and  a  half  that  divided  Bishop's  Court  from  the 
'^  Three  Legs  of  Man/'  and  then  it  went  down  with  some 
other  troubles  and  a  long  pint  of  Manx  jough. 

Of  all  men,  the  most  prompt  to  keep  the  Bishop  informed 
of  Dan's  sad  pranks  was  no  other  than  the  Deemster.  Since 
the  death  of  Ewan's  wife  the  Deemster's  feelings  towards  Dan 
had  undergone  a  complete  change.  From  that  time  foi-ward 
he  looked  on  Dan  with  eyes  of  distrust,  amounting  in  its  in- 
tensity to  hatred.  He  forebade  him  his  house,  though  Dan 
laughed  at  the  prohibition  and  ignored  it.  He  also  went 
across  to  Bishop's  Court  for  the  first  time  for  ten  years,  and 
poured  into  the  Bishop's  ears  the  story  of  every  bad  bit  of 
business  in  which  Dan  got  involved.  Dan  kept  him  fully 
employed  in  this  regard,  and  Bishop's  Court  saw  the  Deemster 
at  frequent  intervals. 

If  it  was  degrading  to  the  Bishop's  place  as  father  of  the 
Church  that  his  son  should  consort  with  all  the  "  raggabash  " 
of  the  island,  the  scum  of  the  land,  and  the  dirtiest  froth  of 
the  sea,  the  Bishop  was  made  to  know  the  full  bitterness  of 
that  degradation.  He  would  listen  with  head  held  down,  and 
when  the  Deemster,  passing  from  remonstrance  to  reproach, 
would  call  upon  him  to  set  his  own  house  in  order  before 
he  ever  ascended  the  pulpit  again,  the  Bishop  would  lift  his 
great  heavy  eyes  with  an  agonised  look  of  appeal,  and  answer 
in  a  voice  like  a  sob,  "  Have  patience,  Thorkell,  have  patience 
with  the  lad ;  he  is  my  son,  my  only  son." 

It  chanced  that  towards  the  end  of  the  herring  season  an 
old  man  of  eighty,  one  William  Callow,  died,  and  he  was  the 
captain  of  the  parish  of  Michael.  The  captaincy  was  a  semi- 
civil,  semi-military  office,  and  it  included  the  functions  of 
parish  head-constable.  Callow  had  been  a  man  of  extreme 
probity,  and  his  walk  in  life  had  been  without  a  slip.  "The 
ould  man's  left  no  living  craythur  to  fill  his  shoes,"  the  people 
said  when  they  buried  him ;  but  when  the  name  of  the  old 
man's  successor  came  down  from  Castletown,  who  should 
be  the  new  captain  but  Daniel  Mylrea }  The  people  were 
amazed,  the  Deemster  laughed  in  his  throat,  and  Dan  him- 
self looked  appalled. 

Hardly  a  month  after  this  event,  the  relations  of  Dan  and 
the  Deemster,  and  Dan  and  the  Bishop,  reached  a  climax. 

For  months  past  the  Bishop  had  been  hatching  a  scheme 
for  the  subdivision  of  his  episcopal  glebe,  the  large  extent  of 

rod 


THE   LIE  THAT  EWAN  TOLD 

which  had  long  been  a  burden  on  the  d^^indling  energies  of 
his  advancing  age  ;  and  he  liad  determined  that,  since  his  son 
was  not  to  be  a  minister  of  the  Church,  he  should  be  its  tenant, 
and  farm  its  lands.  So  he  cut  off  from  the  demesne  a  farm  of 
eighty  acres  of  fine  Curragh  land,  well  drained  and  tilled. 
This  would  be  a  stay  and  a  solid  source  of  livelihood  to  Dan 
when  the  herring  fishing  had  ceased  to  be  a  pastime.  There 
was  no  farm-house  on  the  eighty  acres,  but  barns  and  stables 
were  to  be  erected,  and  Dan  was  to  share  with  Ewan  the  old 
Ballamona  as  a  home. 

Dan  witnessed  these  preparations,  but  entered  into  them 
with  only  a  moderate  enthusiasm.  The  reason  of  his  luke- 
warmness  was  that  he  found  himself  deeply  involved  in  debts 
whereof  his  father  knew  nothing.  When  the  fishing  season 
finished  and  the  calculations  were  made,  it  was  found  that 
the  boat  had  earned  no  more  than  ;^240.  Of  this  old  Billy 
Quilleash  took  four  shares,  every  man  took  two  shares,  there 
was  a  share  set  aside  for  Davy,  the  boy,  and  the  owner  was 
entitled  to  eight  shares  for  himself,  his  nets,  and  his  boat. 
So  far  all  was  reasonably  satisfactory.  The  difficulty  and  dis- 
satisfaction arose  when  Dan  began  to  count  the  treasury. 
Then  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  not  enough  in  hand 
to  pay  old  Billy  and  his  men  and  the  boy,  leaving  Dan's 
eight  shares  out  of  the  count. 

Dan  scratched  his  head  and  pondered.  He  was  not  bril- 
liant at  figures,  but  he  totted  up  his  numbers  again  with  the 
same  result.  Then  he  computed  the  provisioning — tea,  at 
four  shillings  a  pound,  besides  fresh  meat  four  times  a  week, 
and  fine  flour  biscuits.  It  was  heavy  but  not  ruinous,  and  the 
season  had  been  poor  but  not  bad,  and,  whatever  the  net 
results,  there  ought  not  to  have  been  a  deficit  where  the 
principle  of  co-operation  between  master  and  man  was  that 
of  share  and  share. 

Dan  began  to  see  his  way  through  the  mystery — it  was 
most  painfully  transparent  in  the  light  of  the  score  that  had 
been  chalked  up  from  time  to  time  on  the  inside  of  the  cup- 
board of  the  "Three  Legs  of  Man."  But  it  was  easier  to 
see  where  the  money  had  gone  than  to  make  it  up,  and  old 
Billy  and  his  chums  began  to  mutter  and  to  grumble. 

"  It's  raely  wuss  till  ever,"  said  one. 

"The  tack  we've  been  on  hasn't  been  worth  workin'/* 
said  another. 

107 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Dan  heard  their  murmurs,  and  went  up  to  Bishop's  Court. 
A.fter  all,  the  deficit  was  only  forty  pounds,  and  his  father 
would  lend  him  that  much.  But  hardly  had  Dan  sat  down 
to  breakfast  than  the  Bishop,  who  was  clearly  in  lower  spirits 
than  usual,  began  to  lament  that  his  charities  to  the  poor  had 
been  interrupted  by  the  cost  of  building  the  barns  and  stables 
on  the  farm  intended  for  his  son. 

"  I  hope  your  fishing  will  turn  out  well,  Dan,"  he  said,  "  for 
I've  scarce  a  pound  in  hand  to  start  you." 

So  Dan  said  nothing  about  the  debt,  and  went  back  to  the 
fisher-fellows  with  a  face  as  long  as  a  haddock's.  "  I'll  tell 
you,  men,  the  storm  is  coming,"  he  said. 

Old  Billy  looked  as  black  as  thunder,  and  answered  with 
an  impatient  gesture,  "  Then  keep  your  weather  eye  liftin', 
that's  all." 

Dan  measured  the  old  salt  from  head  to  foot,  and  hitched 
his  hand  into  his  guernsey.  ''  You  wouldn't  talk  to  me  like 
that,  Billy  Quilleash,  if  I  hadn't  been  a  fool  with  you.  It's 
a  true  saying,  that  when  you  tell  your  servant  your  secret  you 
make  him  your  master." 

Old  Billy  sniggered,  and  his  men  snorted.  Billy  wanted 
to  know  why  he  had  left  Kinvig's  boat,  where  he  had  a  sure 
thirty  pounds  for  his  season ;  and  Ned  Teare  wished  to  be 
told  what  his  missus  would  say  when  he  took  her  five  pound 
ten  ;  and  Crennel,  the  slushy,  asked  what  sort  of  a  season  the 
mastha  was  afther  callin'  it,  at  all,  at  all. 

Not  a  man  of  them  remembered  his  share  of  the  long  scores 
chalked  up  on  the  inside  of  the  cupboard  door. 

"  Poor  old  dad,"  thought  Dan,  "  he  must  find  the  money 
after  all — no  way  but  that,"  and  once  again  he  turned  towards 
Bishop's  Court. 

Billy  Quilleash  saw  him  going  off,  and  followed  him. 
''I've  somethin'  terrible  fine  up  here,"  said  Billy,  tapping  his 
forehead  mysteriously. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Dan  asked. 

"  Och,  a  shockin'  powerful  schame.  It'll  get  you  out  of 
the  shoal  water  anyways,"  said  Billy. 

It  turned  out  that  the  "  shockin'  powerful  schame  "  was  the 
ancient  device  of  borrowing  the  money  from  a  money-lender 
Old  Billy  knew  the  very  man  to  serve  the  turn.  His  name 
was  Kisseck,  and  he  kept  the  "  Jolly  Herrings  "  in  Peeltown, 
near  the  bottom    of  the    crabbed    little   thoroughfare   that 

108 


THE   LIE   THAT   EWAN   TOLD 

wound  and  twisted  and  descended  to  that  part  of  the  quay 
which  overlooked  the  castle  rock. 

''No,  no  ;  that'll  not  do,"  said  Dan. 

"  Aw,  and  why  not  at  all  ?  " 

"Why  not?  Why  not?  Because  it's  blank  robbery  to 
borrow  what  you  can't  pay  back." 

''Robbery?  Now,  what's  the  use  of  sayin'  the  like  o' 
that  ?  Aw,  the  shockin'  notions  !  Well,  well,  and  do  you 
raely  think  a  person's  got  no  feelin's  ?  Robbery  ?  Aw,  well 
now,  well  now." 

And  old  Billy  tramped  along  with  the  air  of  an  injured  man. 

But  the  end  of  it  was  that  Dan  said  nothing  to  the  Bishop 
that  day,  and  the  same  night  found  him  at  the  "Jolly 
Herrings."  The  landlord  had  nothing  to  lend,  not  he,  but  he 
knew  people  who  would  not  mind  parting  with  money  on 
good  security,  or  on  anybody's  bail,  as  the  savin'  was.  Couldn't 
Mastha  Dan  get  a  good  man's  name  to  a  bit  o'  paper,  like  ? 
Coorse  he  could,  and  nothing  easier,  for  a  gentl'man  same 
as  him.  Who  was  the  people  ?  They  belonged  to  Liverpool, 
the  Goree  Peaizy — Benas  they  were  callin'  them. 

Three  days  afterwards  the  forty  pounds,  made  up  to  fifty 
for  round  numbers,  came  to  Kisseck,  the  landlord,  and  the 
bit  o'  paper  came  with  it.  Dan  took  the  paper  and  went  off 
with  it  to  the  old  Ballamona.  Ewan  would  go  bail  for  him, 
and  so  the  Bishop  need  know  nothing  of  the  muddle.  But 
when  Dan  reached  his  new  home  Ewan  was  away — a  poor 
old  Quaker  named  Christian,  who  had  brought  himself  to 
beggary  by  neglecting  Solomon's  injunction  against  surety- 
ship, was  dying,  and  had  sent  for  the  parson. 

Dan  was  in  a  hurry  ;  the  fisher-fellows  were  grumbling,  and 
their  wives  were  hanging  close  about  their  coat-tails ;  the 
money  must  be  got  without  delay,  and  of  course  Ewan  would 
sign  for  it  straight  away  if  he  were  there.  An  idea  struck 
Dan,  and  made  the  sweat  to  start  from  his  forehead.  He  had 
put  the  paper  on  the  table  and  taken  up  a  pen  when  he 
h(^ard  Ewan's  voice  outside,  and  then  he  threw  the  pen  down, 
and  his  heart  leapt  with  a  sense  of  relief. 

Ewan  came  in,  and  rattled  on  about  old  Christian,  the 
Quaker.  He  hadn't  a  week  to  live,  poor  old  soul,  and  he 
hadn't  a  shilling  left  in  the  world.  Once  he  farmed  his 
hundred  acres^  but  he  had  stood  surety  for  this  man  and 
surety  for  that  man,  and  paid  up  the  defalcations  of  both, 

lO.g 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  now,  while  they  were  eating  the  bread  of  luxury,  he  was 
dying  as  a  homeless  pauper. 

''Well,  he  has  been  practising  a  bad  virtue,"  said  Ewan. 
''I  wouldn't  stand  surety  for  my  own  brother — not  for  my 
own  brother  if  I  had  one.  It  would  be  helping  him  to  eat 
to-day  the  bread  he  earns  to-morrow." 

Dan  went  out  without  saying  anything  of  the  bit  of  paper 
from  Liverpool.  The  fisher-fellows  met  him,  and  when  they 
heard  what  he  had  to  say  their  grumblings  broke  out  again. 

"  Well,  I'm  off  for  the  Bishop,  and  no  disrespec',"  said  old 
Billy. 

He  did  not  go ;  the  bit  o'  paper  was  signed,  but  not  by 
Ewan ;  the  money  was  paid  ;  the  grateful  sea-dogs  were  sent 
home  with  their  wages  in  their  pockets  and  a  smart  cuff  on 
either  ear. 

A  month  or  two  went  by,  and  Dan  grew  quiet  and  thought- 
ful, and  sometimes  gloomy,  and  people  began  to  say,  ''It's 
none  so  wild  the  young  mastha  is  at  all  at  all,"  or  perhaps, 
"  Wonderful  studdy  he's  growing,"  or  even,  "  I  wouldn't  trust 
but  he'll  turn  out  a  parson  after  all."  One  day  in  November 
Dan  went  over  to  new  Ballamona  and  asked  for  Mona,  and 
sat  with  her  in  earnest  talk.  He  told  her  of  some  impending 
disaster,  and  she  listened  with  a  whitening  tace. 

From  that  day  forward  Mona  was  a  changed  woman.  She 
seemed  to  share  some  great  burden  of  fear  with  Dan,  and  it 
lay  heavy  upon  her,  and  made  the  way  of  life  very  long  and 
cheerless  to  the  sweet  and  silent  girl. 

Towards  the  beginning  of  December  sundrj'  letters  came  out 
of  their  season  from  the  young  clerk  of  Benas  Brothers,  Jarvis 
Kerruish.  Then  the  Deemster  went  over  more  than  once  to 
Bishop's  Court,  and  had  grave  interviews  with  the  Bishop. 

"  If  you  can  prove  this  that  you  say,  Thorkell,  I  shall  turn 
my  back  on  him  for  ever — yes,  for  ever,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
his  voice  was  husky  and  his  sad  face  was  seamed  with  lines 
of  pain. 

A  few  days  passed  and  a  stranger  appeared  at  Ballamona, 
and  when  the  stranger  had  gone  the  Deemster  said  to  Mona, 
"  Be  ready  to  go  to  Bishop's  Court  with  me  in  the  morning." 

Mona's  breath  seemed  to  be  suddenly  arrested.  "Will 
Ewan  be  there  }  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  isn't  it  the  day  of  his  week-day  service  at  the  chapei 
— Wednesday — isn't  it }  " 

110 


THE  LIE  THAT  EWAN   TOLD 

"  And  Dan  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Dan  ?  Why  Dan  ?  Well,  woman,  perhaps  Dan  too — who 
knows  ?  " 

The  Bishop  had  sent  across  to  the  old  Ballamona  to  say 
that  he  wished  to  see  his  son  in  the  library  after  service  on 
the  following  morning. 

At  twelve  next  day,  Dan,  who  had  been  ploughing,  turned 
in  at  Bishop's  Court  in  his  long  boots  and  rough  red  shirt,  and 
there  in  the  library  he  found  Mona  and  the  Deemster  seated. 
Mona  did  not  speak  when  Dan  spoke  to  her.  Her  voice 
seemed  to  fail ;  but  the  Deemster  answered  in  a  jaunty  word 
or  two ;  and  then  the  Bishop,  looking  very  thoughtful,  came 
in  with  Ewan,  whose  eyes  were  brighter  than  they  had  been 
for  many  a  day,  and  behind  them  walked  the  stranger  whom 
Mona  had  seen  at  Ballamona  the  day  before. 

"  Why,  and  how's  this  }  "  said  Ewan,  on  perceiving  that  so 
many  of  them  were  gathered  there. 

The  Bishop  closed  the  door,  and  then  answered  with 
averted  face,  "We  have  a  painful  interview  before  us,  Ewan 
■ — be  seated." 

It  was  a  dark  day ;  the  clouds  hung  low,  and  the  dull 
rumble  of  the  sea  came  through  the  dead  air.  A  fire  of  logs 
and  peat  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  the  Deemster  rose  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  it,  his  hands  interlaced  behind  him. 
The  Bishop  sat  in  his  brass-clamped  chair  at  the  table,  and 
rested  his  pale  cheek  on  his  hand.  There  was  a  pause,  and 
then,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  the  Bishop  said,  "  Ewan,  do  you 
know  that  it  is  contrary  to  the  customs  of  the  Cliurch  for  a 
minister  to  stand  security  for  a  debtor .'' " 

Ewan  was  standing  by  the  table  fumbling  the  covers  of  a 
book  that  he  had  lifted.     "  I  know  it,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Do  you  know  that  the  minister  who  disregards  that 
custom  stands  liable  to  suspension  at  the  hands  of  his 
Bishop?" 

Ewan  looked  about  with  a  stare  of  bewilderment,  but  he 
answered  again  and  as  quietly,  "  I  know  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  Deemster, 
clearing  his  throat  noisily,  turned  to  where  Dan  was  pawing 
up  a  rug  that  lay  under  a  column  and  bust  of  Bunyan. 

*'And  do  you  know,  sir,"  said  the  Deemster  in  his  shrill 
tones,  "  what  the  punishment  of  forgery  may  be  .'* " 

Dan's  face  had  undergone  some  changes  during  the  last 

111 


*  THE   DEEMSTER 

few  minutes,  but  when  he  Hfted  it  to  the  Deemster's  it  w«ts 
as  firm  as  a  rock. 

"Hanging,  perhaps,"  he  answered  sullenly;  "transporta- 
tion, perhaps.     What  of  it  ?     Out  with  it — be  quick." 

Dan's  eyes  flashed;  the  Deemster  tittered  audibly;  the 
Bishop  looked  up  at  his  son  from  under  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles  and  drew  a  long  breath.  Mona  had  covered  her 
face  in  her  hands  where  she  sat  in  silence  by  the  ingle,  and 
Ewan,  still  fumbling  the  book  in  his  nervous  fingers,  was 
glancing  from  Dan  to  the  Deemster,  and  from  the  Bishop  to 
Dan,  with  a  look  of  blank  amazement. 

The  Deemster  motioned  to  the  stranger,  who  thereupon 
advanced  from  where  he  had  stood  by  the  door,  and  stepped 
up  to  Ewan. 

"  May  I  ask  if  this  document  was  drawn  by  your  authority  ?  " 
and  saying  this  the  stranger  held  out  a  paper,  and  Ewan  took 
it  in  his  listless  fingers. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Ewan  glanced  down  at  the 
document.  It  showed  that  fifty  pounds  had  been  lent  to 
Daniel  Mylrea,  by  Benas  Brothers,  of  the  Goree  Piazza,  Liver- 
pool, and  it  was  signed  by  Ewan's  own  name  as  that  of  surety. 

"  Is  that  your  signature  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

Ewan  glanced  at  Dan,  and  Dan's  head  was  on  his  breast  and 
his  lips  quivered.  The  Bishop  was  trembling  visibly,  and  sat 
with  head  bent  low  by  the  sorrow  of  a  wrecked  and  shattered 
hope. 

The  stranger  looked  from  Ewan  to  Dan,  and  from  Dan  to 
the  Bishop.  The  Deemster  gazed  steadily  before  him,  and 
his  face  wore  a  ghostly  smile. 

"  Is  it  your  signature  ?  "  repeated  the  stranger,  and  his  words 
fell  on  the  silence  like  the  clank  of  a  chain. 

Ewan  saw  it  all  now.  He  glanced  again  at  the  document, 
but  his  eyes  were  dim,  and  he  could  read  nothing.  Then  he 
lifted  his  face,  and  its  lines  of  agony  told  of  a  terrible  struggle. 

"  Yes,"  lie  answered,  "  the  signature  is  mine — what  of  it  ?  " 

At  that  the  Bishop  and  Mona  raised  their  eyes  together. 
The  stranger  looked  incredulous. 

"  It  is  quite  right  if  you  say  so,"  the  stranger  repUed,  with 
a  cold  smile. 

Ewan  trembled  in  every  limb.     "  I  do  say  so,"  he  said. 

His  fingers  crumpled  the  document  as  he  spoke,  but  his 
head  was  erect,  and  the  truth  seemed  to  sit  on  his  lips.     Dan 

112 


THE  LIE  THAT   EWAN   TOLD 

dropped  heavily  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

The  stranger  smiled  again  the  same  cold  smile.  ''The 
lenders  wisli  to  withdraw  the  loan/'  he  said. 

"  They  may  do  so — in  a  month,"  said  Ewan. 

"  That  will  suffice." 

The  Deemster's  face  twitched ;  Mona's  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears ;  the  Bishop  had  risen  and  gone  to  the  window, 
and  was  gazing  out  through  blurred  eyes  into  the  blinding 
rain  that  was  now  pelting  against  the  glass. 

"  It  would  be  cruel  to  prolong  a  painful  interview,"  said 
the  stranger;  and  then,  with  a  glance  towards  Dan  where 
he  sat  convulsed  with  distress  that  he  made  no  effort  to 
conceal,  he  added  in  a  hard  tone — 

"  Only  the  lenders  came  to  have  reasons  to  fear  that  perhaps 
the  document  had  been  drawn  without  your  knowledge." 

Ewan  handed  the  paper  back  with  a  nerveless  hand.  He 
looked  at  the  stranger  through  swimming  eyes,  and  said 
gently,  but  with  an  awful  inward  effort,  "  You  have  my 
answer,  sir — I  knew  of  it." 

The  stranger  bowed  and  went  out.  Dan  leapt  to  his  feet 
and  threw  his  arms  about  Ewan's  neck,  but  dared  not  to  look 
into  his  troubled  face.     Mona  covered  her  eyes  and  sobbed. 

The  Deemster  picked  up  his  hat  to  go,  and  in  passing  out 
he  paused  in  front  of  Ewan  and  said  in  a  bitter  whisper — 

"  Fool !  fool !  You  have  taken  this  man's  part  to  your  own 
confusion." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  the  Deemster  the  Bishop 
turned  from  the  window.  "  Ewan,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  like 
a  cry,  "  the  Recording  Angel  has  set  down  the  lie  you  have 
told  to-day  in  the  Book  of  Life  to  your  credit  in  heaven." 

Then  the  Bishop  paused,  and  Dan  lifted  his  head  from 
Ewan's  neck. 

"  As  for  you,  sir,"  the  Bishop  added,  turning  to  his  son,  "  I 
am  done  with  you  for  ever ;  go  from  me ;  let  me  see  youi 
face  no  more." 

Dan  went  out  of  the  room  with  bended  head. 


113 


THE  DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  XYI 

THE    PLOUGHING    MATCH 

When  Ewan  got  back  home,  Dan  was  sitting  before  the  fire  in 
the  old  hall,  his  legs  stretched  out  before  him,  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  head  low  in  his  breast,  and  his 
whole  mien  indicative  of  a  crushed  and  broken  spirit.  He 
glanced  up  furtively  as  Ewan  entered,  and  then  back  with  a 
stony  stare  to  the  fire.  If  Ewan  had  given  him  one  word  of 
cheer,  God  knows  what  tragic  consequences  would  have  been 
spared  to  both  of  them.  But  Ewan  had  saved  Dan  from  the 
penalty  of  his  crime  at  the  cost  of  truth  and  his  self-esteem. 

"  Dan,"  he  said,  "  you  and  I  must  part ;  we  can  be  friends 
no  longer." 

He  spoke  with  a  strong  effort,  and  the  words  seemed  to 
choke  him.  Dan  shambled  to  his  feet ;  he  appeared  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts  for  a  moment,  like  one  who  had  fainted 
and  returns  to  consciousness. 

"Mind,  I  don't  turn  you  out  of  the  house,"  said  Ewan,  "only 
if  we  are  to  share  this  place  together  we  must  be  strangers." 

A  hard  smile  broke  out  on  Dan's  face.  He  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  speak,  but  not  a  word  would  come.  He  twisted 
slowly  on  his  heel,  and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  door  that  led  to 
the  inner  part  of  the  house. 

"  One  thing  more,"  said  Ewan,  speaking  quickly  and  in  a 
tremulous  voice  ;  "  I  will  ask  you  to  look  upon  yourself  as  a 
stranger  to  my  sister  also." 

Dan  stopped  and  turned  about.  Over  the  forced  smile  his 
hard  face  told  of  a  great  struggle  for  self-command.  He  said 
nothing,  and  after  a  moment  he  went  out,  drawing  his  breath 
audibly. 

Then  straightway  Ewan  flung  himself  in  the  chair  from 
which  Dan  had  risen,  and  his  slight  frame  shook  with  sup- 
pressed sobs.  After  some  minutes  the  sense  of  his  own 
degradation  diminished,  and  left  room  for  a  just  idea  of  Dan's 
abject  humiliation.  "I  have  gone  too  far,"  he  thought ;  "  I 
will  make  amends."  He  had  risen  to  follow  Dan,  when  an- 
other thought  trod  heavily  on  the  heels  of  the  first.  "  Leave 
him  alone,  it  will  be  best  for  himself ;  leave  him  alone,  for  his 

114 


THE   PLOUGHING   MATCH 

own  sake.**  And  so,  with  the  madness  of  wrath  fermenting 
in  his  own  brain,  he  left  it  to  ferment  in  Dan's  brain  as 
well. 

Now  when  Dan  found  himself  left  alone,  he  tried  to  carry 
off  his  humiliation  by  a  brave  show  of  unconcern.  He  stayed 
on  at  the  old  Ballamona,  but  he  never  bothered  himself — not 
he,  forsooth — to  talk  to  folks  who  passed  him  on  the  stairs 
without  a  word  of  greeting,  or  met  in  the  hall  without  a  glance 
of  recognition. 

It  chanced  just  then  that,  in  view  of  a  threatened  invasion, 
the  authorities  were  getting  up  a  corps  of  volunteers,  known 
as  the  Manx  Fencibles,  and  that  they  called  on  the  captains 
of  the  parishes  to  establish  companies.  Dan  threw  himself 
into  this  enterprise  with  uncommon  vigour,  took  drills  himself, 
acquired  a  competent  knowledge  of  the  rudiments  in  a  twink- 
ling, and  forthwith  set  himself  to  band  together  the  young 
fellows  of  his  parish.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  activity  that  Dan 
wanted  at  the  moment,  and  in  following  it  up  the  "Three  Legs" 
saw  him  something  oftener  than  before,  and  there  the  fellows 
of  the  baser  sort  drank  and  laughed  with  him,  addressing  him 
sometimes  as  captain,  but  oftener  as  Dan,  never  troubling 
themselves  a  ha'p'orth  to  put  a  handle  to  his  name. 

This  was  a  turn  of  events  which  Ewan  could  not  under- 
stand. "  I  have  been  mistaken  in  the  man,"  he  thought ; 
"there's  no  heart  left  in  him." 

Towards  the  middle  of  December  Jarvis  Kerruish  arrived  at 
Ballamona,  and  forthwith  established  himself  there  in  a  position 
that  would  have  been  proper  to  the  Deemster's  heir.  He  was 
a  young  man  of  medium  height  and  size,  closely  resembling  the 
Deemster  in  face  and  figure.  His  dress  was  English  :  he  wore 
a  close-fitting  undercoat  with  tails,  and  over  it  a  loose  cloak 
mounted  with  a  brass  buckle  at  the  throat ;  he  had  a  beaver 
hat  of  the  shape  of  a  sugarloaf ;  and  boots  that  fitted  to  his  legs 
like  gloves.  His  manner  was  expansive,  and  he  betrayed  a  com- 
plete  unconsciousness  of  the  sinister  bar  of  his  birth,  and  of  the 
false  position  he  had  taken  up  in  the  Deemster's  house.  He 
showed  no  desire  to  visit  the  cottage  at  the  Cross  Vein,  and  he 
spoke  of  the  poor  with  condescension.  When  he  met  with 
Ewan  he  displayed  no  uneasiness,  and  Ewan  on  his  part  gave 
no  sign  of  resentment.  Mona,  on  the  other  hand,  betrayed  an 
instinctive  repulsion,  and  in  less  than  a  week  from  his  coming 
their  relations   had   reached  an    extraordinary  crisis,  which 

115 


THE  DEEMSTER 

involved  Ewan  and  Dan  and  herself  in  terrible  consequences. 
This  is  what  occurred. 

On  the  day  before  Christmas  Day  there  was  to  be  a  plough- 
ing match  in  a  meadow  over  the  Head,  and  Ewan  stood 
pledged  by  an  old  promise  to  act  as  judge.  The  day  came, 
and  it  was  a  heavy  day,  with  snow-clouds  hanging  overhead, 
and  misty  vapours  floating  down  from  the  hills  and  up  from 
the  Curraghs,  and  hiding  them.  At  ten  in  the  morning  Mona 
muffled  herself  in  a  great-cloak  and  went  over  to  the  meadow 
with  Ewan.  There  a  crowd  had  already  gathered,  strong  men 
in  blue  pilots,  old  men  in  sheepskin  coats,  women  with  their 
short  blue  camblet  gowns  tucked  over  their  linen  caps,  boys 
and  girls  on  every  side,  all  coming  and  going  like  shadows  in  the 
mist.  At  one  end  of  the  meadow  several  pairs  of  horses  stood 
yoked  to  ploughs,  and  a  few  lads  were  in  charge  of  them.  On 
Ewan's  arrival  there  was  a  general  movement  among  a  group  of 
men  standing  together,  and  a  respectful  salutation  to  the  parson. 
The  names  were  called  over  of  the  ploughmen  who  had  entered 
for  the  prize — a  pound  note  and  a  cup — and  last  of  all  there 
was  a  show  of  hands  for  the  election  of  six  men  to  form  a  jury. 

Then  the  stretch  was  staked  out.  The  prize  was  to  the 
ploughman  who  would  make  the  stretch  up  and  down  the 
meadow  in  the  shortest  time,  cutting  the  furrows  straightest, 
cleanest,  and  of  the  most  regular  depth. 

When  all  was  ready,  Ewan  took  up  his  station  where  the  first 
furrow  would  be  cut  into  the  field,  with  Mona  at  his  side,  and 
the  six  jurors  about  him.  The  first  ploughman  to  bring  up  his 
plough  was  a  brawny  young  fellow  with  a  tanned  face.  The 
ploughman  had  brought  up  his  horses  in  front  of  the  stake,  and 
had  laid  hands  on  his  plough  handles,  and  was  measuring  the 
stretch  with  his  eye  for  a  landmark  to  sight  by,  when  Jarvis 
Kerruish  came  into  the  meadow  and  walked  through  the  crowd 
and  took  up  a  place  by  Mona's  side.  There  were  audible  com- 
ments, and  some  racy  exclamations  as  he  pushed  through  the 
crowd,  not  lifting  an  eye  to  any  face  ;  but  he  showed  complete 
indifference,  and  began  to  talk  to  Mona  in  a  loud,  measured 
tone. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  very  gratifying,"  he  was  saying,  "  to  see  the 
peasantry  engaged  in  manly  sports — useful  sports — is,  I  con- 
fess, very  gratifying  to  me." 

"  My  gough  ! "  said  a  voice  from  one  side. 

"  Hurroo !  "  said  a  voice  from  the  other  side. 
116 


THE   PLOUGHING   MATCH 

"  Lawk-a-day  !  "  came  from  behind  in  a  shrill  female  treble. 
"  Did  ye  ever  see  a  grub  turn  butterfly  ?  " 

Jarvis  seemed  not  to  hear.     "Now  there  a**e  sports '* 

he  began;  but  the  ploughman  was  shouting  to  his  horses, 
"  Steady,  steady/'  the  plough  was  dipping  into  the  succulent 
grass,  the  first  swish  of  the  upturned  soil  was  in  the  air,  and 
Jarvis's  wise  words  were  lost. 

All  eyes  were  on  the  bent  back  of  the  ploughman  plodding 
on  in  the  mist.  "  He  cuts  like  a  razor,"  said  one  of  the  spec- 
tators. "He  bears  his  hand  too  much  on,"  said  another. 
"  Do  better  yourself  next  spell,"  said  a  third. 

When  the  horses  reached  the  far  end  of  the  stretch  the 
ploughman  whipped  them  round  like  the  turn  of  a  wheel, 
and  in  another  moment  he  was  toiling  back,  steadily,  firmly, 
his  hand  rigid,  and  his  face  set  hard.  When  he  got  back  to 
where  Ewan,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  stood  surrounded 
by  the  jurors,  he  was  covered  with  sweat.  "Good,  very 
good — six  minutes  ten  seconds,"  said  Ewan  ;  and  there  were 
some  plaudits  from  the  people  looking  on,  and  some  bantei; 
of  the  competitors  who  came  up  to  follow. 

Jarvis   Kerruish,  at  Mona's  elbow,  was  beginning  again, 

'*  I  confess  that  it  has  always  been  my  personal  opinion " 

but  in  the  bustle  of  another  pair  of  horses  whipped  up  to  the 
stake  no  one  seemed  to  be  aware  that  he  was  speaking. 

Five  ploughmen  came  in  succession,  but  all  were  behind 
the  first  in  time,  and  cut  a  less  regular  furrow.  So  Ewan  and 
the  jurors  announced  that  the  prize  was  to  the  stranger. 
Then  as  Ewan  twisted  about,  his  adjudication  finished,  to 
where  Mona  stood  with  Jarvis  by  her  side,  there  was  a 
general  rush  of  competitors  and  spectators  to  a  corner  of 
the  meadow,  where,  from  a  little  square  cart,  the  buirdly 
stranger  who  was  victor  proceeded  to  serve  out  glasses  of  ale 
from  a  small  barrel. 

While  this  was  going  on,  and  there  was  some  laughter  and 
shouting  and  singing,  there  came  a  loud  Hello  !  as  of  many 
voices  from  a  little  distance,  and  then  the  beat  of  many 
irregular  feet,  and  one  of  the  lads  in  the  crowd,  who  had 
jumped  to  the  top  of  the  broad  turf  hedge,  shouted,  "It's 
the  capt'n — it's  Mastha  Dan." 

In  another  half-minute  Dan  and  some  fifty  or  sixty  of  the 
scum  of  the  parish  came  tumbling  into  the  meadow  on  all 
sides — over  the  hedge,  over  the  gate,  and  tearing  through 

117 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  gaps  in  the  gorse.  These  were  the  corps  that  Dan 
had  banded  together  towards  the  Manx  Fencibles,  but  the 
only  regimentals  they  yet  wore  were  a  leather  belt,  and  the 
only  implement  of  war  they  yet  carried  was  the  small  daggei 
that  was  fitted  into  the  belt.  That  morning  they  had  been 
drilling,  and  after  drill  they  had  set  off  to  see  the  ploughing 
match,  and  on  the  way  they  had  passed  the  "  Three  Legs," 
and,  being  exceeding  dry,  they  had  drawn  up  in  front 
thereof,  and  every  man  had  been  served  with  a  glass,  which 
had  been  duly  scored  off  to  the  captain's  account. 

Dan  saw  Mona  with  Ewan  as  he  vaulted  the  gate,  but  he 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  in 
the  thick  of  the  throng  at  the  side  of  the  cart,  hearing  all 
about  the  match,  and  making  loud  comments  upon  it  in  his 
broadest  homespun. 

"  What ! "  he  said,  "  and  you've  let  yourselves  be  bate  by 
a  craythur  like  that.     Hurroo  !  " 

He  strode  up  to  the  stranger's  furrow,  cocked  his  eye 
along  it,  and  then  glanced  at  the  stranger's  horses. 

"  Och,  I'll  go  bail  I'll  bate  it  with  a  yoke  of  oxen.'* 

At  that  there  was  a  movement  of  the  crowd  around  him,  and 
some  cheering,  just  to  egg  on  the  rupture  that  was  imminent. 

The  big  stranger  heard  all,  and  strode  through  the  people 
with  a  ftice  like  a  thunder-cloud. 

"  Who  says  he'll  bate  it  with  a  yoke  of  oxen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  afther  saying,  my  fine  fellow.  Have 
you  anything  agen  it  .f* " 

In  half  a  minute  a  wager  had  been  laid  of  a  pound  a  side 
that  Dan  with  a  pair  of  oxen  would  beat  the  stranger  with  a 
pair  of  horses  in  two  stretches  out  of  three. 

"  Davy  !  Davy  ! "  shouted  Dan,  and  in  a  twinkling  there 
was  Davy  Fayle,  looking  queer  enough  in  his  guernsey,  and 
his  long  boots,  and  his  sea-cap,  and  withal  his  belt  and  his 
dagger.  Davy  was  sent  for  the  pair  of  oxen  to  where  they 
were  leading  manure,  not  far  away.  He  went  off  like  a  shot, 
and  in  ten  minutes  he  was  back  in  the  meadow,  driving  the 
oxen  before  him. 

Now  these  oxen  had  been  a  gift  of  the  Bishop  to  Dan. 
They  were  old,  and  had  grown  wise  with  their  years.  For 
fifteen  years  they  had  worked  on  the  glebe  at  Bishop's 
Court,  and  they  knew  the  dinner-hour  as  well  as  if  they  could 
have  taken  the  altitude  of  the  sun.     When  the  dinner-bell 

118 


THE   PLOUGHING   MATCH 

rang  at  the  Court  at  twelve  o'clock  the  oxen  would  stop 
short,  no  matter  where  they  were  or  what  they  were  doing, 
and  not  another  budge  would  they  make  until  they  had  been 
unyoked  and  led  off  for  their  midday  mash. 

It  was  now  only  a  few  minutes  short  of  twelve,  but  no  one 
took  note  of  that  circumstance,  and  the  oxen  were  yoked  to  a 
plough. 

"  Same  judge  and  jury,"  said  the  stranger ;  but  Ewan  ex- 
cused himself. 

"  Aw,  what  matter  about  a  judge  ? "  said  Dan  from  his 
plough  handles.     "Let  the  jury  be  judge  as  well." 

Ewan  and  Mona  looked  on  in  silence  for  some  moments. 
Ewan  could  scarce  contain  himself.  There  was  Dan,  stripped  to 
his  red  flannel  shirt,  his  face  tanned  and  glowing,  his  whole  body 
radiantwith  fresh  life  aind  health,and  he  was  shouting  and  laugh- 
ing as  if  there  had  never  been  a  shadow  to  darken  his  days. 

"  Look  at  him,"  whispered  Ewan,  with  emotion,  in  Mona's 
ear.  "  Look  !  this  good-nature  that  seems  so  good  to  others  is 
almost  enough  to  make  me  hate  him." 

Mona  was  startled,  and  turned  to  glance  into  Ewan's  face. 

"  Come,  let  us  go,"  said  Ewan,  with  head  aside. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mona. 

Then  Jarvis  Kerruish,  who  had  stepped  aside  for  a  moment, 
returned  and  said — 

"  Will  you  take  a  wager  with  mCj  Mona — a  pair  of  gloves  .'*  '* 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered. 

"  Who  do  you  bet  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  on  the  stranger,"  said  Mona,  colouring  slightly,  and 
laughing  a  little. 

''  How  lucky,"  said  Jarvis ;  "  I  bet  on  the  captain." 

"  I  can  stand  it  no  longer,"  whispered  Ewan.  "  Will  you 
come  }  "  But  Mona's  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  group  about 
the  oxen.  She  did  not  hear,  and  Ewan  turned  away,  and 
walked  out  of  the  meadow. 

Then  there  was  a  shout,  and  the  oxen  started  with  Dan 
])ehind  them.  On  they  went  through  the  hard,  tough  ground 
tranquilly,  steadily,  with  measured  pace,  tearing  through  roots 
of  trees  that  lay  in  their  way  as  if  nothing  could  stop  them  in 
their  great  strength. 

When  the  oxen  got  back  after  the  first  stretch  the  time 
was  called — five  minutes  thirty  seconds — and  there  was  a 
great  cheer,  and  Mona's  pale  face  was  triumphant. 

119 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Tlie  stranger  brought  up  his  horses,  and  set  off  again, 
straining  every  muscle.  He  did  his  stretch  in  six  minutes 
four  seconds,  and  another  cheer — but  it  was  a  cheer  for  Dan 
— went  up  after  the  figures  were  called. 

Then  Dan  whipped  round  his  oxen  once  more,  and  brought 
them  up  to  the  stake.  The  excitement  among  the  people  was 
now  very  great.  Mona  clutched  her  cloak  convulsively,  and 
held  her  breath.  Jarvis  was  watching  her  closely,  and  she 
knew  that  his  cold  eyes  were  on  her  face. 

''  One  would  almost  imagine  that  you  were  anxious  to  lose 
your  bet,"  he  said.  She  made  no  answer.  When  the  oxen 
started  again,  her  lips  closed  tightly,  as  if  she  was  in  pain. 

On  the  oxen  went,  and  made  the  first  half  of  the  stretch 
without  a  hitch,  and,  with  the  blade  of  the  plough  lifted,  they 
were  wheeling  over  the  furrow  end,  when  a  bell  rang  across 
the  Curragh — it  was  the  bell  for  the  midday  meal  at  Bishop's 
Court — and  instantly  they  came  to  a  dead  stand.  Dan  called 
to  them,  but  they  did  not  budge ;  then  his  whip  fell  heavily 
across  their  snouts,  and  they  snorted,  but  stirred  not  an  inch. 
The  people  were  in  a  tumult,  and  shouted  with  fifty  voices  at 
once.  Dan's  passion  mastered  him.  He  brought  his  whip 
down  over  the  flanks  and  across  the  eyes  and  noses  of  the 
oxen ;  they  winced  under  the  blows  that  rained  down  on 
them,  and  then  shot  away  across  the  meadow,  tearing  up 
the  furrows  they  had  made. 

Then  there  was  a  cry  of  vexation  and  anger  from  the  people, 
and  Dan,  who  had  let  go  his  reins,  strode  back  to  the  stake. 
"  I've  lost,"  said  Dan,  with  a  muttered  oath  at  the  oxen. 

All  this  time  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  kept  his  eye  steadily  fixed 
on  Mona's  twitching  face.  "  You've  won,  Mona,"  he  said,  in 
a  cold  voice  and  with  an  icy  smile. 

"  I  must  go.  Where  is  Ewan  ?  "  she  said  tremulously,  and, 
before  Jarvis  was  aware,  she  had  gone  over  the  grass. 

Dan  had  heard  when  Ewan  declined  to  act  as  judge,  he  had 
seen  when  Ewan  left  the  meadow,  and,  though  he  did  not  look, 
lie  knew  when  Mona  was  no  longer  there.  His  face  was  set 
hard,  and  it  glowed  red  under  his  sunburnt  skin. 

"  Davy,  bring  them  up,"  he  said  ;  and  Davy  Fayle  led  back 
the  oxen  to  the  front  of  the  stake. 

Then  Dan  unyoked  them,  took  out  the  long  swinging  tree  that 
divided  them — a  heavy  wooden  bar  clamped  with  iron — and 
they  stood  free  and  began  to  nibble  the  grass  under  their  feet 

120 


THE  WRONG  WAY  WITH   DAN 

"  Look  out ! "  he  shouted,  and  he  swung  the  bar  over  his 
shoulder. 

The  crowd  receded,  and  left  an  open  space  in  which  Dan 
stood  alone  with  the  oxen,  his  great  limbs  holding  the  ground 
like  their  own  hoofs,  his  muscles  standing  out  like  bulbs  on 
his  bare  arms. 

"  What  is  he  going  to  do — kill  them  }  "  said  one. 

"  Look  out ! "  Dan  shouted  again,  and  in  another  moment 
there  was  the  swish  of  the  bar  through  the  air.  Then  down 
the  bar  came  on  the  forehead  of  one  of  the  oxen,  and  it  reeled, 
and  its  legs  gave  way,  and  it  fell  dead. 

The  bar  was  raised  again,  and  again  it  fell,  and  the  second 
of  the  oxen  reeled  like  the  first  and  fell  dead  beside  its  old 
yoke-fellow. 

A  cry  of  horror  ran  through  the  crowd,  but  heeding  it  not 
at  all,  Dan  threw  on  his  coat  and  buckled  his  belt  about  him 
and  strode  through  the  people  and  out  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  XYII 

THE    WRONG    WAY    WITH    DAN 

What  happened  next  was  one  of  those  tragedies  of  bewilder- 
ing motive,  so  common  and  so  fatal,  in  which  it  is  impossible 
to  decide  whether  evil  passion  or  evil  circumstance  plays  the 
chief  malicious  part. 

Dan  walked  straight  to  the  new  Ballamona,  and  pushed 
through  the  house  without  ceremony,  as  it  had  been  his 
habit  to  do  in  other  days,  to  the  room  where  Mona  was  to 
be  found.  She  was  there,  and  she  looked  startled  at  his 
coming. 

"  Is  it  you,  Dan  ?  "  she  said  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 

He  answered  sullenly — 

"  It  is  I.  I  have  come  to  speak  with  you — I  have  some- 
thing to  say — but  no  matter " 

He  stopped  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  His  head 
ached,  his  eyes  were  hot,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  him  to  be 
in  darkness  and  confusion. 

"  Mona,  I  think  I  must  be  going  mad,"  he  stammered  after 
a  moment. 

9  1^1 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  Why  talk  like  that  ?  "  she  said.  Her  bosom  heaved  and 
her  face  was  troubled. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  after  a  pause  turned  towards  her, 
and  said  in  a  quick,  harsh  tone,  "  You  did  not  expect  to  see 
me  here,  and  you  have  been  forbidden  to  receive  me.  Is  it 
not  so  ?  " 

She  coloured  deeply,  and  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  then 
she  began  with  hesitation — 

"  My  father — it  is  true,  my  father " 

''It  is  so,"  he  said  sharply.  He  got  on  to  his  feet  and 
tramped  about  the  room.  After  a  moment  he  sat  down  again, 
and  leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  But  what  of  Ewan .'' "  he  asked. 

"  Ewan  loves  you,  Dan,  and  you  have  been  at  fault,"  said 
Mona  in  broken  accents. 

"  At  fault }  " 

There  was  a  sudden  change  in  his  manner.  He  spoke 
brusquely,  even  mockingly,  and  laughed  a  short  grating  laugh. 

"  They  are  taking  the  wrong  way  with  me,  Mona — that's 
the  fact,"  he  said,  and  now  his  breast  heaved  and  the  words 
came  with  difficulty. 

Mona  was  gazing  absently  out  at  the  window,  her  head 
aslant,  her  fingers  interlaced  before  her.  "  Oh,  Dan,  Dan," 
she  murmured  in  a  low  tone,  "  there  is  your  dear,  dear  father, 
and  Ewan  and — and  myself " 

Dan  had  leapt  to  his  feet  again.  "  Don't  turn  my  eyes 
into  my  head,  Mona,"  he  said. 

He  tramped  to  and  fro  in  the  room  for  a  moment,  and  then 
broke  out  nervously,  "  All  last  night  I  dreamt  such  an  ugly 
dream.  I  dreamt  it  three  times,  and  O  God  !  what  an  ugly 
dream  it  was  !  It  was  a  bad  night,  and  I  was  walking  in  the 
dark,  and  stumbling  first  into  bogs  and  then  in  cart  ruts,  when 
all  of  a  sudden  a  man's  hand  seized  me  unawares.  I  could 
not  see  the  man,  and  we  struggled  long  in  the  darkness,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  would  master  me.  He  gripped  me  by  the 
waist,  and  I  held  him  by  the  shoulders.  We  reeled  and  fell 
together,  and  when  I  would  have  risen,  his  knee  was  on  my 
chest.  But  a  great  flood  of  strength  seemed  to  come  to  me, 
and  I  threw  him  off,  and  rose  to  my  feet  and  closed  with  him 
again,  and  at  last  I  was  over  him,  covering  him,  with  his  back 
across  my  thigh  and  my  hand  set  hard  in  his  throat.  And 
all  this  time  I  heard  his  loud  breathing  in  the  darkness,  but 

122 


THE   WRONG  WAY  WITH   DAN 

nevei  once  the  sound  of  liis  voice.  Then  instantly,  as  if  by  a 
flash  of  lightnin<r,  I  saw  the  face  that  was  close  to  mine,  and — 
God  Almighty  !  it  was  my  own  face — my  own — and  it  was  black 
already  from  the  pressure  of  my  stiff  fingers  at  the  throat." 

He  trembled  as  he  spoke,  and  sat  again  and  shivered,  and 
a  cold  chill  ran  down  his  back. 

"  Mona,"  he  said,  half  in  a  sob,  "  do  you  believe  in  omens  .'' " 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  breast  heaved  visibly,  and  she 
could  not  speak. 

"Tush!"  he  said,  in  another  voice,  "omens!"  and  he 
laughed  bitterly,  and  rose  again  and  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
then  said  in  a  quieter  way,  "  Only,  as  I  say,  they're  taking 
the  wrong  way  with  me,  Mona." 

He  had  opened  the  door,  and  she  had  turned  her  swim- 
ming eyes  towards  him. 

"  It  was  bad  enough  to  make  himself  a  stranger  to  me,  but 
why  did  he  want  to  make  you  a  stranger,  too  ?  Stranger ! 
stranger  !  "  He  echoed  the  word  in  a  mocking  accent,  and 
threw  back  his  head. 

"  Dan,"  said  Mona,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone,  and  the  blind- 
ing tears  rained  town  her  cheeks,  "  nothing  and  nobody  can 
make  us  strangers,  you  and  me — not  my  father,  or  your 
dear  father,  or  Ewan,  or  " —  she  dropped  her  voice  to  a  deep 
whisper — "  or  any  misfortune  or  any  disgrace." 

"  Mona!"  he  cried, and  took  a  step  towards  her, and  stretched 
out  one  arm  with  a  yearning  gesture. 

But  at  the  next  moment  he  had  swung  about,  and  was 
going  out  at  the  door.  At  sight  of  all  that  tenderness  and 
loyalty  on  Mona's  face  his  conscience  smote  him  as  it  had 
never  smitten  him  before. 

"  Ewan  was  right,  Mona.  He  is  the  noblest  man  on  God's 
earth,  and  I  am  the  foulest  beast  on  it." 

He  was  pulling  the  door  behind  him,  when  he  encountered 
Jarvis  Kerruish  in  the  hall.  That  gentleman  had  just  come 
into  the  house,  and  was  passing  through  the  hall  in  hat  and 
cloak.  He  looked  appalled  at  seeing  Dan  there,  and  stepped 
aside  to  let  him  go  by  ;  but  Dan  did  not  so  much  as  recognise 
his  presence  by  lifting  his  head  as  he  strode  out  at  the  porch. 

With  head  still  bent,  Dan  had  reached  the  gate  to  the  road 
and  pushed  through  it,  and  sent  it  back  with  a  swing  and  a 
click,  when  the  Deemster  walked  up  to  it,  and  half  halted, 
and  would  have  stopped.     But  Dan  went  moodily  on,  and 

123 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  frown  on  the  Deemster's  wizened  face  was  lost  on  him. 
He  did  not  take  the  lane  towards  the  old  Ballamona,  but 
followed  the  turnpike  that  led  past  Bishop's  Court,  and  as  he 
went  by  the  large  house  behind  the  trees  Ewan  came  through 
the  smaller  gate,  and  turned  towards  the  new  Ballamona. 
They  did  not  speak,  or  even  glance  at  each  other's  faces. 

Dan  went  on  until  he  came  to  the  parish  church.  There 
was  singing  within,  and  he  stopped.  He  remembered  that 
this  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  choir  was  practising  the  psalms 
for  the  morrow's  services. 

"Before  I  was  troubled,  I  went  wrong;  but  now  have  I 
kept  Thy  word." 

Dan  went  up  to  the  church  poi*ch,  and  stood  there  and 
listened. 

"  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  in  trouble,  that  I  may 
learn  Thy  statutes." 

The  wooden  door,  clamped  and  barred  and  worm-eaten  and 
cut  by  knives,  was  ajar,  and  from  where  he  stood  Dan  could 
see  into  the  church.  There  were  the  empty  pews,  the  gaunt, 
square,  green-clad  boxes  on  which  he  had  sat  on  many  a 
Christmas  Eve  at  Oiel  Verree.  He  could  picture  the  old 
place  as  it  used  to  be  in  those  days  of  his  boyhood,  the  sea 
of  faces,  some  solemn  and  some  bubbling  over  with  mischief, 
the  candles  with  their  ribbons,  the  old  clerk,  Will-as-Thorn, 
standing  up  behind  the  communion-rail  with  his  pitch-pipe 
in  his  hand,  and  Hommy-beg,  in  his  linsey-wolsey  petticoat, 
singing  lustily  from  a  paper  held  upside  down.  The  singing 
stopped.  Behind  were  the  hills  Slieu  Dhoo  and  Slieu  Volley, 
hidden  now  under  a  thick  veil  of  mist,  and  from  across  the 
flat  Curragh  there  came  in  the  silence  the  low  moan  of  the 
sea.  "  Once  more,"  said  a  voice  within  the  church,  and  then 
the  psalm  was  sung  again.  Dan  began  to  breathe  easier,  he 
scarce  knew  why,  and  a  great  weight  seemed  to  be  lifted  off 
his  breast. 

As  he  turned  away  from  the  porch  a  heavy  web  of  cloud 
was  sweeping  on  and  sweeping  on  from  over  the  sea.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  that  a  snowstorm  was  coming,  and  that 
the  snow-cloud  would  break  when  it  reached  the  mountains. 

The  clock  in  the  grey  tower  was  striking — one — two — 
three — so  it  was  now  three  o'clock.  Dan  went  down  towards 
the  creek  known  as  the  Lockjaw,  under  Orris  Head.  There 
he  expected  to  see  old  Billy  Quilleash  and  his  mates,  who  had 

124 


THE   BLIND   WOMAN'S   SECOND   SIGHT 

liberty  to  use  the  Ben-my-Chree  during  the  winter  months 
for  fishing  with  the  lines.  When  he  got  to  the  creek  it  was 
an  hour  after  high  water,  and  the  lugger,  with  Quilleash  and 
Teare,  had  gone  out  for  cod.  Davy  Fayle,  who,  like  Dan  him- 
self, was  still  wearing  his  militia  belt  and  dagger,  had  been 
doing  something  among  scraps  of  nets  and  bits  of  old  rope, 
which  lay  in  a  shed  that  the  men  had  thrown  together  for  the 
storing  of  their  odds  and  ends. 

Davy  was  looking  out  to  sea.  Down  there  a  stiff  breeze 
was  blowing,  and  the  white  curves  of  the  breakers  outside 
could  just  be  seen  through  the  thick  atmosphere. 

"  The  storm  is  coming,  Mastha  Dan,"  said  Davy.  "  See  the 
diver  on  the  top  of  the  white  wave  out  there  !  D'ye  hear 
her  wild  note  ?  " 

Davy  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
from  the  sea,  and  looked  up  at  the  stormy  petrel  that  was 
careering  over  the  head  of  the  cliff  above  them  and  uttering 
its  dismal  cry.  "  Ay,  and  d'ye  see  Mother  Carey's  chickens 
up  yonder.?"  said  Davy  again.  "The  storm's  coming,  and 
wonderful  quick  too." 

Truly,  a  storm  was  coming,  and  it  was  a  storm  more  terrible 
than  wind  and  snow. 


CHAPTER  XYIII 

THE    BLIND    WOMAN's    SECOND    SIGHT 

Now  when  Jarvis  Kerruish  encountered  Dan  in  the  act  of 
coming  out  of  Mona's  room,  his  surprise  was  due  to  something 
more  than  the  knowledge  that  Dan  had  been  forbidden  the 
house.  On  leaving  the  meadow  after  the  ploughing  match, 
and  the  slaughter  of  the  oxen  that  followed  it,  Jarvis  had 
made  a  long  circuit  of  the  Curragh,  and  returned  to  Balla- 
mona  by  the  road.  He  had  been  pondering  on  Mona's 
deportment  during  the  exciting  part  of  the  contest  between 
Dan  and  the  stranger,  and  had  just  arrived  at  obvious  con- 
clusions of  his  own  by  way  of  explaining  the  emotion  that  she 
could  not  conceal,  when  he  recognised  that  he  was  approach- 
ing the  cottage  occupied  by  Hommy-beg  and  his  wife  Kerry. 
A  droning  voice  came  from  within,  accompanied  by  some  of 
the  most  doleful  wails  that  ever  arrested  mortal  ears. 

125 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Jarvis  was  prompted  to  stop  and  enter.  He  did  so,  and 
found  both  the  deaf  husband  and  the  blind  wife  at  liome. 
Hommy  was  squatting  on  a  low  three-legged  stool,  with  his 
fiddle  at  his  shoulder,  playing  vigorously,  and  singing  as  he 
played.  It  was  Chrismas  Eve  to  Hommy-beg  also,  and  he 
was  practising  the  carol  that  he  meant  to  sing  at  the  Oiel 
Verree  that  night.  Blind  Kerry  was  sitting  by  the  fire  knit- 
ting with  grey  yam.  The  deaf  man's  eyes  and  the  blind 
woman's  ears  simultaneously  announced  the  visit  of  Jarvis, 
and  as  Hommy-beg  dropped  his  fiddle  from  his  shoulder, 
Kerry  let  fall  the  needles  on  her  lap,  and  held  up  her  hand 
with  an  expression  of  concern. 

"  Och,  and  didn't  I  say  that  something  was  happening  at 
Ballamona  ?  "  said  Kerry. 

"And  so  she  did,"  said  Hommy. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Kerry.     "  I  knew  it,  as  the  sayin'  is." 

All  this  in  return  for  Jarvis's  casual  visit  and  mere  saluta- 
tion surprised  him. 

''  The  sight !  The  sight !  It's  as  true  as  the  ould  Book 
itself.  Aw,  yes ;  aw,  yes,"  continued  KeiTy,  and  she  began 
to  wring  her  hands. 

Jarvis  felt  uneasy.  "  Do  you  know,  my  good  people,"  he 
said  largely,  "  I'm  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  you  mean. 
What  is  it  that  has  happened  at  Ballamona  ?  " 

At  that  the  face  of  the  blind  wife  looked  puzzled. 

''  Have  ye  not  come  from  Ballamona  straight  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No ;  it's  four  hours  since  I  left  there,"  said  Jarvis. 

"  Aw  dear,  aw  dearee  dear  !  "  said  Kerry.  "  The  sight ! 
the  sight ! " 

Jarvis's  uneasiness  developed  into  curiosity,  and  in  answer 
to  many  questions  he  learned  that  blind  Kerry  had  that  day 
been  visited  by  another  of  those  visions  of  Dan  which  never 
came  to  her  except  when  her  nursling  was  in  some  disgrace 
or  danger,  and  never  failed  to  come  to  her  then.  On  this 
occasion  the  vision  had  been  one  of  great  sorrow,  and  Kerry 
trembled  as  she  recounted  it. 

"I  saw  him  as  plain  as  plain,  and  he  was  standing  in 
Mistress  Mona's  room,  atween  the  bed  and  the  wee  craythur's 
rot,  and  he  went  down  on  his  knees  aside  of  it,  and  cried,  and 
cried,  and  cried  morthal,  and  Mistress  Mona  herself  was  there 
sobbing  her  heart  out,  as  the  say  in'  is,  and  the  wee  craythur 
was  sleeping  soft  and  quiet,  and  it  was  dark  night  outside, 

126 


THE   BLIND   WOMAN'S   SECOND   SIGHT 

and  the  candle  was  in  the  mistress's  hand.  Aw,  yes,  I  saw 
it,  sir,  I  saw  it,  and  I  tould  my  man  here,  and,  behould  ye, 
he  said,  '  Drop  it,  woman,  drop  it,'  says  he.  '  It's  only 
drames,  it's  only  drames.'  " 

Jarvis  did  not  find  the  story  a  tragic  one,  but  he  listened 
with  an  interest  that  was  all  his  own. 

"  You  saw  Mr.  Dan  in  Miss  Mona's  room — do  you  mean 
her  chamber  }  " 

"  Sure,  and  he  climbed  in  at  the  window,  and  white  as  a 
haddock,  and  all  amuck  with  sweat." 

"  Climbed  in  at  the  window — the  window  of  her  chamber — 
her  bedroom — ^you're  sure  it  was  her  bedroom  }  " 

"  Sarten  sure.  Don't  I  know  it  same  as  my  own  bit  of  a 
place  }  The  bed,  with  the  curtains  all  white  and  dimity,  as 
they're  sayin',  and  the  wee  thing's  cot  carved  over  with  the 
lions  and  the  tigers  and  the  beasties,  and  the  goat's  rug, 
and  the  sheepskin — aw,  yes,  aw,  yes." 

The  reality  of  the  vision  had  taken  such  hold  of  Kerry 
that  she  had  looked  upon  it  as  a  certain  presage  of  disaster, 
and  when  Jarvis  had  opened  the  door  she  had  leapt  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  came  to  announce  the  catastrophe  that 
she  foresaw,  and  to  summon  her  to  Ballamona. 

Jarvis  smiled  grimly.  He  had  heard  in  the  old  days  of 
Kerry's  second  sight,  and  now  he  laughed  at  it.  But  the 
blind  woman's  stupid  dreams  had  given  him  an  idea,  and 
he  rose  suddenly  and  hurried  away. 

Jarvis  knew  the  Deemster's  weakness,  for  he  knew  why  he 
found  himself  where  he  was.  Stern  man  as  the  Deemster 
might  be,  keen  of  wit  and  strong  of  soul,  Jarvis  knew  that 
there  was  one  side  of  his  mind  on  which  he  was  feebler  than 
a  child.  On  that  side  of  the  Deemster  Jarvis  now  meant  to 
play  to  his  own  end  and  profit. 

He  was  full  to  the  throat  of  the  story  which  he  had  to 
pour  into  credulous  ears  that  never  listened  to  a  superstitious 
tale  without  laughing  at  it  and  mocking  at  it,  and  believing 
it,  when  he  stepped  into  the  hall  at  Ballamona,  and  came 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  Dan,  and  saw  the  door  of  Mona's 
sitting-room  open  before  and  close  behind  him. 

Jarvis  was  bewildered.  Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was 
something  in  the  blind  woman's  second  sight }  He  had 
scarcely  recovered  from  his  surprise  when  the  Deemster 
walked  into  the  porch,  looking  as  black  as  a  thunder-cloud. 

127 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  That  man  has  been  here  again,*'  he  said.  ''  Why  didn't 
you  turn  him  out  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Jarvis. 

They  went  into  the  Deemster's  study.  It  was  a  little  place 
to  the  left  of  the  hall,  half  under  the  stairs,  and  with  the  fire- 
place built  across  one  corner.  Over  the  mantelshelf  a  number 
of  curious  things  were  hung  from  hooks  and  nails — a  huge 
silver  watch  with  a  small  face  and  great  seals,  a  mask,  a  blunder- 
buss, a  monastic  lamp  and  a  crucifix,  a  piece  of  silvered  glass, 
and  a  pistol. 

"  What  now  ?  "  asked  the  Deemster. 

Jarvis  told  the  blind  woman's  story  with  variations,  and  the 
Deemster  listened  intently  and  with  a  look  of  deadly  rage. 

"  And  you  saw  him  come  out  of  her  room — ^you  yourself  saw 
him  ?  "  said  the  Deemster. 

'^With  my  own  eyes,  dear  sir,"  said  Jarvis. 

The  Deemster's  lip  quivered.  "  My  God  !  it  must  be  true," 
he  said. 

At  that  moment  they  heard  a  foot  in  the  hall,  and  going  to 
the  door  in  his  restless  tramping  to  and  fro,  the  Deemster  saw 
that  Ewan  had  come  into  the  house.  H  e  called  to  him,  and  Ewan 
went  into  the  study,  and  on  Ewan  going  in  Jarvis  went  out. 

There  was  a  look  of  such  affright  on  the  Deemster's  face 
that  before  a  word  was  spoken  Ewan  had  caught  the  con- 
tagion of  his  father's  terror.  Then,  grasping  his  son  by  the 
wrist  in  the  intensity  of  his  passion,  the  Deemster  poured  his 
tale  into  Ewan's  ear.  But  it  was  not  the  tale  that  blind 
Kerry  had  told  to  Jarvis,  it  was  not  the  tale  that  Jarvis  had 
told  to  him ;  it  was  a  tale  compounded  of  superstition  and  of 
hate.  Blind  Kerry  had  said  of  her  certain  knowledge  that 
Dan  was  accustomed  to  visit  Mona  in  her  chamber  at  night 
alone,  entering  in  at  the  window.  Jarvis  Kerruish  himself 
had  seen  him  there — and  that  very  day,  not  at  night,  but  in 
the  broad  daylight,  Jarvis  had  seen  Dan  come  from  Mona's 
room.  What }  Had  Ewan  no  bowels,  that  he  could  submit 
to  the  dishonour  of  his  own  sister  ? 

Ewan  listened  to  the  hot  words  that  came  from  his  father 
in  a  rapid  and  ceaseless  whirl.  The  story  was  all  so  fatally 
circumstantial  as  the  Deemster  told  it ;  no  visions,  no  sights, 
no  sneezings  of  an  old  woman ;  all  was  clear,  hard,  deadly, 
damning  circumstance,  or  seemed  to  be  so  to  Ewan's  heated 
brain  and  poisoned  heart. 

128 


THE   BLIND   WOMAN'S   SECOND   SIGHT 

"  Father/'  he  said,  very  quietly,  but  mth  visible  emotion, 
''you  are  my  father,  but  there  are  only  two  persons  alive 
from  whose  lips  I  would  take  a  story  like  this,  and  you  are 
not  one  of  them." 

At  that  word  the  Deemster's  passion  overcame  him.  "  My 
God,"  he  cried,  "what  have  I  done  that  I  should  not  be  be- 
lieved by  my  own  son  ?   Would  I  slander  my  own  daughter  ?  " 

But  Ewan  did  not  hear  him.  He  had  turned  away,  and 
was  going  towards  the  door  of  Mona's  room.  He  moved 
slowly ;  there  was  an  awful  silence.  Full  half  a  minute  his 
hand  rested  on  the  door  handle,  and  only  then  did  his  ner- 
vous fingers  turn  it. 

He  stepped  into  the  room.  The  room  was  empty.  It  was 
Mona's  sitting-room,  her  workroom,  her  parlour,  her  nursery. 
Out  of  it  there  opened  another  room  by  a  door  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  wall  on  the  left.  The  door  of  that  other  room 
was  ajar,  and  Ewan  could  hear,  from  where  he  now  stood 
quivering  in  every  limb,  the  soft  cooing  of  the  child — his 
child,  his  dead  wife's  child — and  the  inarticulate  nothings 
that  Mona,  the  foster-mother,  babbled  over  it. 

"  Boo-loo-la-la-pa-pa,"  "  Dearee-dearee-dear,"  and  then  the 
tender  cooing  died  off  into  a  murmur,  and  an  almost  noiseless 
long  kiss  on  the  full  round  baby-neck. 

Ewan  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment,  and  the  sweat  started 
from  his  forehead.  He  felt  like  one  who  has  been  kneeling 
at  a  shrine  when  a  foul  hand  besmudges  it.  He  had  half 
swung  about  to  go  back,  when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
the  Deemster's  restless  foot  outside.  He  could  not  go  back ; 
the  poison  had  gone  to  his  heart. 

He  stepped  into  the  bedroom  that  led  out  of  the  sitting- 
room.  Mona  raised  her  eyes  as  her  brother  entered.  She 
was  leaning  over  the  cot,  her  beautiful  face  alive  with  the 
light  of  a  tender  love — a  very  vision  of  pure  and  delicious 
womanhood.  Almost  she  had  Hfted  the  child  from  the  cot 
to  Ewan's  arras  when  at  a  second  glance  she  recognised  the 
solemn  expression  of  his  face,  and  then  she  let  the  little  one 
slide  back  to  its  pillow. 

"  What  has  happened  }  " 

"Is  it  true,"  he  began  very  slowly,  "that  Dan  has  been  here.'*'* 

Then  Mona  blushed  deeply,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Is  it  true  }"  he  said  again,  and  now  with  a  hurried  and 
startled  look,  "  is  it  true  that  Dan  has  been  here — here  ?  " 

129 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Mona  misunderstood  his  emphasis.  Ewan  was  standing  in 
her  chamber,  and  when  he  asked  if  Dan  had  been  there,  he 
was  inquiring  if  Dan  had  been  with  her  in  that  very  room. 
She  did  not  comprehend  the  evil  thought  that  had  been  put 
in  his  heart.  But  she  remembered  the  prohibition  placed 
upon  her  both  by  Ewan  and  her  father  never  to  receive  Dan 
again,  and  her  confusion  at  the  moment  of  Ewan's  question 
came  of  the  knowledge  that,  contrary  to  that  prohibition,  she 
had  received  him. 

"  Is  it  true  }  "  he  asked  yet  again,  and  he  trembled  with 
the  passion  he  suppressed. 

After  a  pause  he  answered  himself  with  an  awful  composure, 
"  It  is  true." 

The  child  lifted  itself  and  babbled  at  Mona  with  its  inno- 
cent face  all  smiles,  and  Mona  turned  to  hide  her  confusion 
by  leaning  over  the  cot. 

('  Boo— loo— la-la." 

Then  a  great  wave  of  passion  seemed  to  come  to  Ewan,  and 
he  stepped  to  his  sister  and  took  her  by  both  hands.  He 
was  like  a  strong  man  in  a  dream,  who  feels  sure  that  he  can 
only  be  dreaming — struggling  in  vain  to  awake  from  a  terrible 
nightmare,  and  knowing  that  a  nightmare  it  must  be  that  sits 
on  him  and  crushes  him. 

"  No,  no,  there  must  be  a  mistake  ;  there  must,  there  must," 
he  said,  and  his  hot  breathing  beat  on  her  face.  "He  has 
never  been  here — here — never." 

Mona  raised  herself.  She  loosed  her  hands  from  his  grasp. 
Her  woman's  pride  had  been  stung.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
her  brother  was  taking  more  than  a  brother's  part. 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  she  said  with  some  anger.  "  Dan 
has  been  here." 

"  You  confess  it  ?  " 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  and  answered,  "  Yes, 
if  you  call  it  so — I  confess  it.     It  is  of  no  use  to  deceive  you." 

Then  there  was  an  ominous  silence.  Ewan's  features  be- 
came deathlike  in  their  rigidity.  A  sickening  sense  came 
over  him.  He  was  struggling  to  ask  a  question  that  his 
tongue  would  not  utter. 

"  Mona — do  you  mean — do  you  mean  that  Dan  has — has — • 
outrage — Great  God  !  what  am  I  to  say  }  How  am  I  to  say  it  }'* 

Mona  drew  herself  up. 

"  I  mean  that  I  can  hide  my  feelings  no  longer,"  she  said. 

ISO 


THE   BLIND   WOMAN'S   SECOND   SIGHT 

''  Do  with  me  as  you  may ;  I  am  not  a  child,  and  no  brother 
shall  govern  me.     Dan  has  been  here — outrage  or  none — call 

it  what  you  will — yes,  and "  she  dropped  her  head  over 

the  cot,  "I  love  him." 

Ewan  was  not  himself;  his  heart  was  poisoned,  or  then  and 
there  he  would  have  unravelled  the  devilish  tangle  of  circum- 
stance. He  tried  again  with  another  and  yet  another  question. 
But  every  question  he  asked,  and  every  answer  Mona  gave, 
made  the  tangle  thicker.  His  strained  jaw  seemed  to  start 
from  his  skin. 

"  I  passed  him  on  the  road,"  he  said  to  himself  in  a  hushed 
whisper.     "  Oh,  that  I  had  but  known  ! " 

Then  with  a  look  of  reproach  at  Mona  he  turned  aside  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

He  stepped  back  to  the  study,  and  there  the  Deemster  was 
still  tramping  to  and  fro. 

"  Simpleton,  simpleton  !  to  expect  a  woman  to  acknowledge 
her  own  dishonour,"  the  Deemster  cried. 

Ewan  did  not  answer  at  once  ;  but  in  silence  he  reached  up 
to  where  the  pistol  hung  over  the  mantelshelf  and  took  it 
down. 

"  What  are  you  doing  }  "  cried  the  Deemster. 

"  She  has  acknowledged  it,"  said  Ewan,  still  in  a  suppressed 
whisper. 

For  a  moment  the  Deemster  was  made  speechless  and 
powerless  by  that  answer.  Then  he  laid  hold  of  his  son's 
hand  and  wrenched  the  pistol  away. 

"  No  violence,"  he  cried. 

He  was  now  terrified  at  the  wrath  that  his  own  evil  passions 
had  aroused ;  he  locked  the  pistol  in  a  cabinet. 

"  It  is  better  so,"  said  Ewan,  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  going  out  at  the  porch. 

The  Deemster  followed  him,  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Remember — no  violence,"  he  said  ;  "  for  the  love  of  God, 
see  there  is  no  violence." 

But  Ewan,  without  a  word  more,  without  relaxing  a  muscle 
of  his  hard,  white  face,  without  a  glance  or  a  sign,  but  with 
bloodshot  eyes  and  quivering  nostrils,  with  teeth  compressed 
and  the  great  veins  on  his  forehead  large  and  dark  over  the 
scar  that  Dan  had  left  there,  drew  himself  away,  and  went 
out  of  the  house. 

131 


THE    DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER    XIX 

HOW    EWAN    FOUND    DAN 

EwAN  went  along  like  a  man  whose  reason  is  clogged.  All  his 
faculties  were  deadened.  He  could  not  see  properly.  He  coidd 
not  hear.  He  could  not  think.  Try  as  he  might  to  keep  his 
faculties  from  wandering,  his  mind  would  not  be  kept  steady. 

Time  after  time  he  went  back  to  the  passage  of  Scripture 
which  he  had  fixed  on  that  morning  for  his  next  lesson  and 
sermon.  It  was  the  story  how  Esau,  when  robbed  of  the 
birthright  blessing,  said  in  his  heart,  "  I  will  slay  my  brother 
Jacob  ;  "  how  Jacob  fled  from  his  brother's  anger  to  the  home 
of  Laban ;  how  after  many  years  Esau  married  the  daughter 
of  Ishmael,  and  Jacob  came  to  the  country  of  Edom ;  how  in 
exceeding  fear  of  Esau's  wrath  Jacob  sent  before  him  a  pre- 
sent for  Esau  out  of  the  plenty  with  which  God  had  blessed 
him ;  and  how  Jacob  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  beheld  Esau,  and 
ran  to  meet  him  and  embraced  him,  and  fell  on  his  neck  and 
kissed  him,  and  they  wept. 

Ewan  would  see  the  goats  and  the  ewes,  and  the  rams,  and 
the  milch-camels  toiling  along  through  the  hot  lush  grass  by 
the  waters  of  the  Jordan  ;  then  all  at  once  these  would  vanish, 
and  he  would  find  himself  standing  alone  in  the  drear  winter 
day,  with  the  rumble  of  the  bleak  sea  far  in  front,  and  close 
overhead  the  dark  snow-clouds  sweeping  on  and  on. 

His  strong  emotion  paralysed  all  his  faculties.  He  could 
neither  fix  his  mind  on  the  mission  on  which  he  had  set  out, 
nor  banish  the  thought  of  it.  Mission  !  What  was  it }  At 
one  moment  he  thought  he  knew,  and  then  his  eyes  seemed 
to  jump  from  their  sockets.  "  Am  I  going  mad  }"  he  asked 
himself,  and  his  head  turned  giddy. 

He  went  on  ;  a  blind  force  impelled  him.  At  length  he 
reached  the  old  Ballamona.  His  own  especial  room  in  the 
house  was  the  little  book-encased  closet,  looking  over  tlie 
Curraghs  towards  the  sea — the  same  that  had  been  the  study 
of  Gilcrist  Mylrea,  before  he  went  away  and  came  back  as 
bishop. 

But  Ewan  turned  mechanically  towards  another  part  of  the 
housCj  and  entered  a  room  hung  about  with  muskets  and 

132 


HOW  EWAN  FOUND   DAN 

the  horns  of  deer,  fishing  rods  and  baskets,  a  watchman's 
truncheon  lettered  in  red,  loose  pieces  of  net,  and  even  some 
horse  harness.  A  dog,  a  brown  collie,  lay  asleep  before  the 
fire,  and  over  the  rannel-tree  shelf  a  huge  watch  was  ticking. 

But  Dan  was  not  in  his  room.  Then  Ewan  remembered  in 
a  dazed  way — how  had  the  memory  escaped  him  so  long  ? — 
that  when  Dan  passed  him  on  the  road  he  was  not  going 
homewards,  but  towards  the  village.  No  doubt  the  man  was 
on  his  way  to  the  low  pot-house  he  frequented. 

Ewan  left  Ballamona  and  went  on  towards  the  "  Three  Legs 
of  Man."  He  crossed  the  fields  which  the  Bishop  had  cut  off 
from  the  episcopal  demesne  for  his  son's  occupation  as  a  farm. 
As  he  walked,  his  wandering,  aimless  thoughts  were  arrested 
by  the  neglected  state  of  the  land  and  the  stock  upon  it.  In 
one  croft  the  withered  stalks  of  the  last  crop  of  cabbage  lay 
rotten  on  the  ground  ;  in  a  meadow  a  sheep  was  lying  dead  of 
the  rot,  and  six  or  seven  of  the  rest  of  the  flock  were  dragging 
their  falling  wool  along  the  thin  grass. 

Ewan  came  out  of  the  fields  to  the  turnpike  by  the  footpath 
that  goes  by  Bishop's  Court,  and  as  he  passed  through  the 
stile  he  heard  the  Bishop  in  conversation  with  some  one  on 
the  road  within. 

"  What  is  the  balance  that  I  owe  you,  Mr.  Looney,  for  build- 
ing those  bams  on  my  son's  farm  }  "  the  Bishop  was  saying. 

''  Seven  pounds  five  shillings,  my  lord,"  the  man  answered  ; 
"  and  rael  bad  I'm  wanting  the  money,  too,  my  lord,  and  three 
months  I'm  afther  waiting  for  it." 

"So  you  are,  Mr.  Looney.  You  would  have  been  paid 
before  this  if  I'd  had  wherewith  to  pay  you." 

Then  there  was  silence  between  the  two,  and  Ewan  was 
going  on,  when  the  Bishop  added — 

"  Here — here — take  this."  There  was  a  sound  as  of  the 
rattle  of  keys  and  seals  and  a  watch-chain.  "  It  was  my  old 
iiither's  last  gift  to  me,  all  he  had  to  give  to  me — God  bless 
his  memory  ! — and  I  little  thought  to  part  with  it — but  there, 
take  it  and  sell  it,  and  pay  yourself,  Mr.  Looney." 

The  man  seemed  to  draw  back. 

"Your  watch  !  "  he  said.  "Aw,  no,  no,  no  !  Och,  if  I'm 
never  paid,  never,  it's  not  Patrick  Looney  that  is  the  man  to 
take  the  watch  out  of  your  pocket." 

"  Take  it— take  it !  Why,  my  good  man  " — the  Bishop's 
voice  was  all  but  breaking — "you  should  not  refuse  to  take 

133 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  time  of  day  from  your  Bishop/'  Then  there  was  a  jaunty 
laugh,  with  a  great  sob  at  the  back  of  it.  "  Besides,  I've  found 
the  old  thing  a  sore  tax  on  my  failing  memory  this  many  day  to 
wind  it  and  wear  it.     Come,  it  will  wipe  out  my  debt  to  you." 

Ewan  went  on;  his  teeth  were  set  hard.  Why  had  he 
overheard  that  conversation  }  Was  it  to  whet  his  purpose  ? 
It  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  some  supernatural  influence 
over  him.  But  this  was  not  the  only  conversation  he  over- 
heard that  day.  When  he  got  to  the  "  Three  Legs  of  Man  " 
a  carrier's  cart  stood  outside.  Ewan  stepped  into  the  lobby  of 
the  house.  The  old  cat  was  counting  up  the  chalk  marks, 
vertical  and  horizontal,  at  the  back  of  the  cupboard  door,  and 
the  carrier  was  sitting  on  a  round  table  recounting  certain 
mad  doings  at  Castletown. 

" '  Let's  down  with  the  watch  and  take  their  lanterns,*  says 
the  captain,  says  he,  laughing  morthal  and  a  bit  sprung,  maybe ; 
and  down  they  went,  one  atop  o'  the  other.  Jemmy  the  Red, 
and  Johnny-by-Nite,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  bellowing  strong, 
and  the  captain  and  his  pals  whipping  up  their  lanterns  and 
their  truncheons,  and  away  at  a  slant.     Aw,  it  was  right  fine." 

The  carrier  laughed  loud  at  his  story. 

"Was  that  when  Mastha  Dan  was  down  at  Castletown 
fixing  the  business  for  the  Fencibles  }  " 

"Aw,  yes,  woman,  and  middlin'  stiff  it  cost  him.  Next 
morning  Jemmy  the  Red  and  Johnny-by-Nite  were  off  for  the 
Castle,  but  the  captain  met  them,  and  '  I'm  not  for  denying 
it,'  says  he,  and  '  a  bit  of  a  spree,'  he  says,  and  '  Take  this. 
Jemmy,'  says  he,  'and  say  no  more.' " 

"  And  what  did  he  give  the  watch  to  sweeten  them  }  " 

"  Three  pound,  they're  saying.  Aw,  yes,  woman,  woman — 
liberal,  very.     None  o'  yer  close-fisted  about  the  captain." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Ewan's  heart.  In  a  moment  he  found 
himself  asking  for  Dan,  and  hearing  from  the  old  woman  with 
the  whiskers,  who  spoke  with  a  curtsey  after  every  syllable, 
that  Master  Dan  had  been  seen  to  go  down  towards  the 
creek,  the  Lockjaw,  under  Orris  Head. 

Ewan  went  out  of  the  pot-house  and  turned  the  lane 
towards  the  creek.  What  was  the  mysterious  influence  on 
his  destiny  that  he  of  all  men  must  needs  overhear  two  such 
conversations,  and  hear  them  now  of  all  times  }  The  neglected 
lands,  the  impoverished  old  Bishop,  the  reckless  spendthrift, 
all  rose  before  Ewan's  mind  in  a  bewildering  haze. 

134 


HOW   EWAN   FOUND   DAN 

The  lane  to  the  Lockjaw  led  past  the  shambles  that  stood 
a  little  out  of  the  village.  Ewan  had  often  noticed  the 
butcher's  low  waggon  on  the  road,  with  sheep  penned  in  by 
a  rope  across  the  stern-board,  or  with  a  calf  in  a  net.  All  at 
once  he  now  realised  that  he  was  walking  behind  tliis  waggon, 
and  that  a  dead  ox  lay  in  it,  and  that  the  driver  at  the  horse's 
head  was  talking  to  a  man  who  plodded  along  beside  him. 
Ewan's  faculties  were  now  more  clouded  than  before,  but  he 
could  hear,  with  gaps  in  which  his  sense  of  hearing  seemed 
to  leave  him,  the  conversation  between  the  two  men. 

"Well,  well,  just  to  think — killing  the  poor  beast  for 
stopping  when  the  dinner-bell  rang  at  the  Coort  !  And 
them  used  of  it  for  fifteen  years  !     Aw,  well,  well." 

"He's  no  Christian,  anyway,  and  no  disrespec'.' 

"  Christian  ?  Christian,  is  it }  Brute  beast  as  I'm  sayin*. 
The  ould  Bishop's  son.'*     Well,  well." 

Bit  by  bit,  scarcely  listening,  losing  the  words  sometimes, 
as  one  loses  at  intervals  the  tick  of  a  clock  when  lying 
awake  at  night  with  a  brain  distraught,  Ewan  gathered  up 
the  story  of  the  bad  business  at  the  ploughing  match  after 
he  had  left  the  meadow. 

"Christian.'*  Och,  Christian.'*"  one  of  the  men  repeated, 
with  a  bitter  laugh  of  mockery.  "  I'm  thinkin'  it  would  be 
a  middlin'  little  crime  to  treat  a  Christian  like  that  same  as 
he  treated  the  poor  dumb  craythurs." 

Ewan's  temples  beat  furiously,  and  a  fearful  tumult  was  rife 
in  his  brain.  One  wild  thought  ex])elled  all  other  thoughts. 
Why  had  he  overheard  three  such  conversations.'*  There 
could  be  but  one  answer — he  was  designed  by  supernatural 
powers  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  fixed  purpose.  It  was  irre- 
vocably decided — he  was  impelled  to  the  terrible  business 
that  was  in  his  mind  by  an  irresistible  force  to  which  he  was 
blind  and  powerless.     It  was  so — it  was  so. 

Ewan  pushed  on  past  the  waggon,  and  heard  the  men's 
voices  die  off  to  an  indistinct  mumble  behind  him.  How 
hideous  were  the  meditations  of  the  next  few  minutes  !  The 
beating  of  his  temple  drew  the  skin  hard  about  the  scar  above 
it.  He  thought  of  his  young  wife  in  her  grave,  and  of  the 
shock  that  sent  her  there.  He  felt  afresh  the  abject  de- 
gradation of  that  bitter  moment  in  the  library  at  Bishop's 
Court,  when,  to  save  the  honour  of  a  forger,  he  had  lied 
before  God  and  man.     Then  he  thought  of  the  grey  head  of 

135 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  august  old  man,  serenest  of  saints,  fondest  of  fathers,  the 
Bishop,  bowed  down  to  the  dust  with  shame  and  a  ruined 
hope.  And  after  his  mind  had  oscillated  among  these  agonis- 
ing thoughts  there  came  to  him  over  all  else,  and  more  hide- 
ous than  all  else,  the  memory  of  what  his  own  father,  the 
Deemster,  had  told  him  an  hour  ago. 

Ewan  began  to  run,  and  as  he  ran  all  his  blood  seemed  to 
rush  to  his  head,  and  a  thousand  confused  and  vague  forms 
danced  before  his  eyes.  All  at  once  he  recognised  that  he 
was  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  going  down  the  steep  gate  to 
the  sea  that  ended  in  the  Lockjaw.  Before  he  was  aware, 
he  was  talking  with  Davy  Fayle  and  asking  for  Dan.  He 
noticed  that  his  voice  would  scarcely  obey  him. 

"  He's  in  the  crib  on  the  shore,  sir,"  said  Davy,  and  the  lad 
turned  back  to  his  work.  He  was  hammering  an  old  bent  nail 
out  of  a  pitch-pine  plank  that  had  washed  ashore  with  the  last 
tide.  After  a  moment  Davy  stopped  and  looked  after  the  young 
parson,  and  shook  his  head  and  muttered  something  to  himself. 
Then  he  threw  down  his  hammer  and  followed  slowly. 

Ewan  went  on.  His  impatience  was  now  feverish.  He 
was  picturing  Dan  as  he  would  find  him — drinking,  smoking, 
laughing,  one  leg  thrown  over  the  end  of  a  table,  his  cap 
awry,  his  face  red,  his  eyes  bleared,  and  his  lips  hot. 

It  was  growing  dark,  the  snow-cloud  was  very  low  over- 
head, the  sea-birds  were  screaming  down  at  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  sea's  deep  rumble  came  up  from  the  shingle  below 
and  the  rocks  beyond. 

Ewan  saw  the  tent  and  made  for  it.  As  he  came  near  to  it 
he  slipped  and  fell.  Regaining  his  feet,  he  perceived  that  in 
the  dusk  he  had  tripped  over  some  chips  that  lay  about  a 
block.  Davy  had  been  chopping  firewood  of  the  driftwood 
that  the  sea  had  sent  up.  Ewan  saw  the  hatchet  lying  among 
the  loose  chips.  In  an  instant  he  had  caught  it  up.  Recog- 
nising in  every  event  of  that  awful  hour  the  mysterious  influ- 
ence of  supernatural  powers,  he  read  this  incident  as  he  had 
read  all  the  others.  Until  then  he  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  the  deed  he  was  to  do ;  never  for  one  instant  of  how  he 
was  to  do  it.  But  now  the  hatchet  was  thrust  into  his  hand. 
Thus  was  everything  irrevocably  decided. 

And  now  Ewan  was  in  front  of  the  tent,  panting  audibly,  the 
hatchet  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  the 
great  veins  on  his  forehead  hard  and  black.     Now,  O  God ! 

136' 


BLIND   PASSION   AND    PAIN 

for  a  moment's  strength,  one  little  moment's  strength,  now, 
now! 

The  smoke  was  rising  from  the  gorse-covered  roof ;  the  little 
black  door  was  shut  Inside  was  Dan,  Dan,  Dan ;  and  while 
Ewan's  young  wife  lay  in  her  grave,  and  Ewan's  sister  was 
worse  than  in  her  grave,  and  the  good  Bishop  was  brought 
low,  Dan  was  there,  there,  and  he  was  drinking  and  laughing 
and  his  heart  was  cold  and  dead. 

Ewan  Ufted  the  latch  and  pushed  the  door  open,  and 
stepped  into  the  tent. 

Lord  of  grace  and  mercy,  what  was  there  ?  On  the  floor 
of  earth  in  one  corner  of  the  small  place  a  fire  of  gorse,  turf,  and 
logs  burned  slowly,  and  near  this  fire  Dan  lay  outstretched 
on  a  bed  of  straw,  his  head  pillowed  on  a  coil  of  old  rope,  one 
hand  twisted  under  his  head,  the  other  resting  lightly  on  his 
breast,  and  he  slept  peacefully  like  a  child. 

Ewan  stood  for  a  moment  shuddering  and  dismayed.  The 
sight  of  Dan,  helpless  and  at  his  mercy,  unnerved  his  arm  and 
drove  the  fever  from  his  blood ;  there  was  an  awful  power  in  that 
sleeping  man,  and  sleep  had  wrapped  him  in  its  own  divinity. 

The  hatchet  dropped  from  Ewan's  graspless  fingers,  and  he 
covered  his  face.  As  a  drowning  man  is  said  to  see  all  his 
life  pass  before  him  at  the  moment  of  death,  so  Ewan  saw  all 
the  past,  the  happy  past — the  past  of  love  and  of  innocence, 
whereof  Dan  was  a  part — rise  up  before  him. 

^'  It  is  true  I  am  going  mad,"  he  thought,  and  he  fell  back 
on  to  a  bench  that  stood  by  the  wall.  Then  there  came  an 
instant  of  unconsciousness,  and  in  that  instant  he  was  again  by 
the  waters  of  the  Jordan,  and  the  ewes  and  the  rams  and  the 
milch-camels  were  toiling  through  the  long  grass,  and  Esau  was 
falling  on  the  neck  of  Jacob,  and  they  were  weeping  together. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BLIND    PASSION    AND    PAIN 

Dan  moved  uneasily,  and  presently  awoke,  opened  his  eyes,  and 
saw  Ewan,  and  betrayed  no  surprise  at  his  presence  there. 

"  Ah  !  is  it  you,  Ewan  ?  "  he  said,  speaking  quietly,  partly  in 
a  shamefaced  way,  and  with  some  confusion.     "  Do  you  know, 
I've  been  dreaming  of  you — you  and  Mona?" 
10  137 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Ewan  gave  no  answer.  Because  sleep  is  a  holy  thing,  and 
the  brother  of  death,  whose  shadow  also  it  is,  therefore  Ewan's 
hideous  purpose  had  left  him  while  Dan  lay  asleep  at  his  feet ; 
but  now  that  Dan  was  awake  the  evil  passion  came  again. 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  that  Mother  Carey's  chicken — you  re- 
member it — when  we  were  lumps  of  lads,  you  know  ?  Why, 
you  can't  have  forgotten  it — the  old  thing  I  caught  in  its  nest 
jast  under  the  Head  }  " 

Still  Ewan  gave  no  sign,  but  looked  down  at  Dan  resting 
on  his  elbows.  Dan's  eyes  fell  from  Ewan's  face,  but  he  went 
on  in  a  confused  way — 

"  Mona  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  caged,  and  would  have  me  put 
it  back.  Don't  you  remember  I  clambered  up  to  the  nest  and 
put  the  bird  in  again  }  You  were  down  on  the  shore,  thinking 
sure  I  would  tumble  over  the  Head,  and  Mona — Mona " 

Dan  glanced  afresh  into  Ewan's  face,  and  its  look  of  terror 
seemed  to  stupefy  him ;  still  he  made  shift  to  go  on  with  his 
dream  in  an  abashed  sort  of  way. 

"  My  gough  !  if  I  didn't  dream  it  all  as  fresh  as  fresh,  and 
the  fight  in  the  air,  and  the  screams  when  I  put  the  old  bird 
in  the  nest — the  young  ones  had  forgotten  it  clean,  and  they 
tumbled  it  out,  and  set  on  it  terrible,  and  drove  it  away — and 
then  the  poor  old  thing  on  the  rocks  sitting  by  itself  as  lonesome 
as  lonesome — and  little  Mona  crying  and  crying  down  below, 
and  her  long  hair  rip-rip-rippling  m  the  wind,  and — and " 

Dan  had  got  to  his  feet,  and  then  seated  himself  on  a  stool 
as  he  rambled  on  with  the  story  of  his  dream.  But  once  again 
his  shifty  eyes  came  back  to  Ewan's  face,  and  he  stopped  short 

"  My  God,  what  is  it }  "  he  cried. 

Now  Ewan,  standing  there  with  a  thousand  vague  forms  float- 
ing in  his  brain,  had  heard  little  of  what  Dan  had  said,  but  he 
had  noted  his  confused  manner,  and  had  taken  this  stoiy  of  the 
dream  as  a  feeble  device  to  hide  the  momentary  discomfiture. 

"  What  does  it  mean  }  "  he  said.  "  It  means  that  this  island 
is  not  large  enough  to  hold  both  you  and  me.'* 

"What.?" 

*'  It  means  that  you  must  go  away/* 

"  Away ! " 

"  Yes — and  at  once." 

In  the  jjause  that  followed  after  his  first  cry  of  amazement, 
Dan  thought  only  of  the  bad  business  of  the  killing  of  the 
oxen  at  the  ploughing  match  that  morning,  and  so  in  a  tone 

ISS 


BLIND   PASSION  AND   PAIN 

of  utter  abasement,  with  his  face  to  the  ground,  he  went  on 
in  a  blundering,  humble  way,  to  allow  that  Ewan  had  reason 
for  his  anger. 

"I'm  a  blind  headstrong  fool,  I  know  that,  and  my  temper 
is — well,  it's  damnable,  that's  the  fact ;  but  no  one  suffers  from 
it  more  than  I  do,  and  if  I  could  have  felled  myself  after  I 
had  felled  the  oxen,  why  down  ....  Ewan,  for  the  sake  of 
the  dear  old  times  when  we  were  good  chums,  you  and  I  and 
little  Mona,  with  her  quiet  eyes,  God  bless  her ! " 

"  Go  away,  and  never  come  back  to  either  of  us,"  cried  EM^an, 
stamping  his  foot. 

Dan  paused,  and  there  was  a  painful  silence. 

''  Why  should  I  go  away  ?  "  he  said  with  an  effort  at  quietness. 

'^  Because  you  are  a  scoundrel — the  basest  scoundrel  on 
God's  earth — the  foulest  traitor — the  blackest-hearted  mon- 
ster  " 

Dan's  sunburnt  face  whitened  under  his  tawny  skin. 

"  Easy,  easy,  man  veen,  easy,"  he  said,  struggling  visibly  for 
self-command,  while  he  interrupted  Ewan's  torrent  of  re- 
proaches. 

"  You  are  a  disgrace  and  a  by-word.  Only  the  riff-raff  of  the 
island  are  your  friends  and  associates." 

"  That's  true  enough,  Ewan,"  said  Dan,  and  his  head  fell 
between  his  hands,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees. 

"What  are  you  doing.?  Drinking,  gambUng,  roystering, 
cheating — yes '* 

Dan  got  to  his  feet  uneasily  and  took  a  step  to  and  fro  about 
the  little  place ;  then  sat  again,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands 
as  before. 

"  I've  been  a  reckless,  self-willed,  mad  fool,  Ewan,  but  no 
worse  than  that.  And  if  you  could  see  me  as  God  sees  me,  and 
know  how  I  suffer  for  my  follies  and  curse  them,  for  all  I  seem 
to  make  so  light  of  them,  and  how  I  am  driven  to  them  one  on 
the  head  of  another,  perhaps — perhaps — perhaps  you  would 
have  pity — ay,  pity." 

"  Pity  }  Pity  for  you  .?  You  who  have  brought  your  fatlier 
to  shame  ?  He  is  the  ruin  of  the  man  he  was.  You  have  im- 
poverished him ;  you  have  spent  his  substance  and  wasted  it. 
Ay,  and  you  have  made  his  grey  head  a  mark  for  reproach. 
'Set  your  own  house  in  order' — that's  what  the  world  says  to 
the  man  of  God  whose  son  is  a  child  of  the " 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  Dan. 

139 


THE  DEEMSTER 

He  had  leapt  to  his  feet,  his  fist  clenched,  his  knuckles 
showing  like  nuts  of  steel. 

But  Ewan  went  on,  standing  there  with  a  face  that  was 
ashy  white  above  his  black  coat.  "  Your  heart  is  as  dead  as 
your  honour.  And  that  is  not  all,  but  you  must  outrage  the 
honour  of  another." 

Now,  when  Ewan  said  this,  Dan  thought  of  his  forged 
signature,  and  of  the  censure  and  suspension  to  which  Ewan 
was  thereby  made  liable. 

"  Go  away,"  Ewan  cried  again,  motioning  Dan  off  with  his 
trembUng  hand. 

Dan  lifted  his  eyes.  "And  what  if  I  refuse.''"  he  said  in 
a  resolute  way. 

"  Then  take  the  consequences." 

''  You  mean  the  consequences  of  that — that — that  forgery  ?  " 

At  this  Ewan  realised  the  thought  in  Dan's  mind,  and  per- 
ceived that  Dan  conceived  him  capable  of  playing  upon  his 
fears  by  holding  over  his  head  the  penalty  of  an  offence  which 
he  had  already  taken  upon  himself.  "God  in  heaven  !"  he 
thought,  "and  this  is  the  pitiful  creature  whom  I  have  all 
these  years  taken  to  my  heart." 

"  Is  that  what  your  loyalty  comes  to  ?  "  said  Dan,  and  his 
lip  curled. 

"Loyalty,"  cried  Ewan  in  white  wrath.  "Loyalty,  and 
you  talk  to  me  of  loyalty — you  who  have  outraged  the  honour 
of  my  sister " 

"  Mona ! " 

"  I  have  said  it  at  last,  though  the  word  blisters  my  tongue. 
Go  away  from  the  island  for  ever,  and  let  me  never  see  your 
face  again." 

Dan  rose  to  his  feet  with  rigid  limbs.  He  looked  about 
him  for  a  moment  in  a  dazed  silence,  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  as  if  he  had  lost  himself. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  slow  whisper. 

"  Don't  deny  it — don't  let  me  know  you  for  a  liar  as  well," 
Ewan  said  eagerly ;  and  then  added  in  another  tone,  "  I  have 
had  her  own  confession." 

"Her  confession .f* " 

"  Yes,  and  the  witness  of  another.** 

"  The  witness  of  another  I  " 

Dan  echoed  Ewan's  words  in  a  vague,  half-conscious  way. 
Then,  in  a  torrent  of  hot  words  that  seemed  to  blister  and 

140 


BLIND   PASSION   AND   PAIN 

sting  the  man  who  spoke  them  no  less  than  the  man  who  heard 
them,  Ewan  told  all,  and  Dan  listened  like  one  in  a  stupor. 

There  was  silence,  and  then  Ewan  spoke  again  in  a  tone  of 
agony.  "Dan,  there  was  a  time  when  in  spite  of  yourself  I 
loved  you — yes,  though  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it,  for  it  was  against 
God's  own  leading ;  still  I  loved  you,  Dan.  But  let  us  part  for 
ever  now  and  each  go  his  own  way,  and  perhaps,  though  we  can 
never  forget  the  wrong  that  you  have  done  us,  we  may  yet  think 
more  kindly  of  you,  and  time  may  help  us  to  forgive " 

But  Dan  had  awakened  from  his  stupor,  and  he  flung  aside. 

"  Damn  your  forgiveness  ! "  he  said  hotly,  and  then,  with 
teeth  set,  and  lips  drawn  hard,  and  eyes  aflame,  he  turned  upon 
Ewan  and  strode  up  to  him,  and  they  stood  together  face  to  face. 

"  You  said  just  now  that  there  was  not  room  enough  in  the 
island  for  you  and  me,"  he  said  in  a  hushed  whisper.  ''  You 
were  right,  but  I  shall  mend  your  words :  if  you  believe  what 
you  have  said — by  Heaven  I'll  not  deny  it  for  you  ! — there  is 
not  room  enough  for  both  of  us  in  the  world." 

"  It  was  my  own  thought,"  said  Ewan,  and  then  for  an  instant 
each  looked  into  the  other's  eyes  and  read  the  other's  purpose. 

The  horror  of  that  moment  of  silence  was  broken  by  the 
lifting  of  the  latch.  Davj'  Fayle  came  shambling  into  the  tent 
on  some  pretended  errand.  He  took  off  his  miHtia  belt  with 
the  dagger  in  the  sheath  attached  to  it,  and  hung  it  on  a  long 
rusty  nail  driven  into  an  upright  timber  at  one  comer.  Then 
he  picked  up  from  among  some  ling  on  the  floor  a  waterproof 
coat  and  put  it  on.  He  was  going  out,  with  furtive  glances  at 
Dan  and  Ewan,  who  said  not  a  word  in  his  presence,  and  were 
bearing  themselves  towards  each  other  with  a  painful  con- 
straint, when  his  glance  fell  on  the  hatchet  which  lay  a  few 
feet  from  the  door.  Davy  picked  it  up  and  earned  it  out, 
muttering  to  himself,  "  Strange,  strange  uncommon  !  " 

Hardly  had  the  boy  dropped  the  latch  of  the  door  from  with- 
out than  Ewan  took  the  militia  belt  from  the  nail  and  buckled 
it  about  his  waist.  Dan  understood  his  thought ;  he  was  still 
wearing  his  own  militia  belt  and  dagger.  There  was  now  not  an 
instant's  paltering  between  them — not  a  word  of  explanation. 

''We  must  get  rid  of  the  lad,"  said  Dan. 

Ewan  bowed  his  head.  It  had  come  to  him  to  reflect  that 
when  all  was  over  Mona  might  hear  of  what  had  been  done. 
What  they  had  to  do  was  to  be  done  for  her  honour,  or  for 
what  seemed  to  be  her  honour  in  that  blind  tangle  of  passion 
and  circumstance.     But  none  the  less,  though  she  loved  both 

141 


THE   DEEMSTER 

of  them  now,  would  she  loathe  that  one  who  returned  to  her 
with  the  blood  of  the  other  upon  him. 

"  She  must  never  know,"  he  said.  "  Send  the  boy  away. 
Then  we  must  go  to  where  this  work  can  be  done  between 
you  and  me  alone." 

Dan  had  followed  his  thought  in  silence,  and  was  stepping 
towards  the  door  to  call  to  Davy,  when  the  lad  came  back, 
carrying  a  log  of  driftwood  for  the  fire.  There  were  some 
small  flakes  of  snow  on  his  waterproof  coat. 

"  Go  up  to  the  shambles,  Davy,"  said  Dan,  speaking  with  an 
effort  at  composure,  "  and  tell  Jemmy  Curghey  to  keep  me  the 
ox-horns." 

Davy  looked  up  in  a  vacant  way,  and  his  lip  lagged  low. 
"Aw,  and  didn't  you  tell  Jemmy  yourself,  and  terrible  par- 
tic'lar,  too  ?" 

"  Do  you  say  so,  Davy  ?  " 

"Sarten  sure." 

''Then  just  slip  away  and  fetch  them.** 

Davy  fixed  the  log  on  the  fire,  tapped  it  into  the  flame, 
glanced  anxiously  at  Dan  and  Ewan,  and  then  in  a  lingering 
way  went  out.  His  simple  face  looked  sad  under  its  vacant 
expression. 

The  men  listened  while  the  lad's  footsteps  could  be  heard 
on  the  shingle,  above  the  deep  murmur  of  the  sea.  Then 
Dan  stepped  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

"  Now,"  he  said. 

It  was  rapidly  growing  dark.  The  wind  blew  strongly  into 
the  shed.     Dan  stepped  out>  and  Ewan  followed  him. 

They  walked  in  silence  through  the  gully  that  led  from  the 
creek  to  the  cliif  head.  The  snow  that  had  begun  to  fall  was 
swirled  about  in  the  wind  that  came  from  over  the  sea,  and, 
spinning  in  the  air,  it  sometimes  beat  against  their  faces. 

Ewan  went  along  like  a  man  condemned  to  death.  He  had 
begun  to  doubt,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  and  would  have 
shut  his  mind  to  the  idea  if  it  had  occurred  to  him.  But  once 
when  Dan  seemed  to  stop  as  if  only  half  resolved,  and  partly 
turn  his  face  towards  him,  Ewan  mistook  his  intention.  "  He 
is  going  to  tell  me  that  there  is  some  hideous  error,"  he  thought. 
He  was  burning  for  that  word.  But  no,  Dan  went  plodding 
on  again,  and  never  after  shifted  his  steadfast  gaze,  never 
spoke,  and  gave  no  sign.  At  length  he  stopped,  and  Ewan 
stopped  with  him.  They  were  standing  on  the  summit  of 
Orris  Head. 

142 


BLIND   PASSION   AND   PAIN 

It  was  a  sad,  a  lonesome,  and  a  desolate  place,  in  sight  of 
a  wide  waste  of  common  land,  without  a  house,  and  with  never 
a  tree  rising  above  the  purple  gorse  and  tussocks  of  long  grass. 
The  sky  hung  very  low  over  it ;  the  steep  red  cliffs,  with  their 
patches  of  green  in  ledges,  swept  down  from  it  to  the  shingle 
and  the  sharp  shelves  of  slate  covered  with  sea-weed.  The 
ground  swell  came  up  from  below  with  a  very  mournful  noise, 
but  the  air  seemed  to  be  empty,  and  every  beat  of  the  foot  on 
the  soft  turf  sounded  near  and  large.  Above  their  heads  the 
sea-fowl  kept  up  a  wild  clamour,  and  far  out,  where  sea  and 
sky  seemed  to  meet  in  the  gathering  darkness,  the  sea's  steady 
blow  on  the  bare  rocks  of  the  naze  sent  up  a  deep,  hoarse  boom. 

Dan  unbuckled  his  belt,  and  threw  off  his  coat  and  vest. 
Ewan  did  the  same,  and  they  stood  there  face  to  face  in  the 
thin  flakes  of  snow,  Dan  in  his  red  shirt,  Ewan  in  his  white, 
shirt  open  at  the  neck,  these  two  men  whose  souls  had  been 
knit  together  as  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit  to  the  soul  of 
David,  and  each  ready  to  lift  his  hand  against  his  heart's  best 
brother.  Then  all  at  once  a  startled  cry  came  from  near  at 
hand. 

It  was  Davy  Fayle's  voice.  The  lad  had  not  gone  to  the 
shambles.  Realising  in  some  vague  way  that  the  en*and  was 
a  subterfuge  and  that  mischief  was  about,  he  had  hidden  him- 
self at  a  little  distance,  and  had  seen  when  Dan  and  Ewan  came 
out  of  the  tent  together.  Creeping  through  the  ling,  and 
partly  hidden  by  the  dust,  he  had  followed  the  men  until  they 
had  stopped  on  the  Head.  Then  Davy  had  dropped  to  his 
knees.  His  ideas  were  obscure,  he  scarcely  knew  what  was 
going  on  before  his  eyes,  but  he  held  his  breath  and  watched 
and  listened.  At  length,  when  the  men  threw  off  their  clothes, 
the  truth  dawned  on  Davy,  and  though  he  tried  to  smother 
an  exclamation,  a  cry  of  terror  burst  from  his  husky  throat. 

Dan  and  Ewan  exchanged  glances,  and  each  seemed  in  one 
moment  to  read  the  other's  thoughts.  In  another  instant,  at 
three  quick  strides,  Dan  had  taken  Davy  by  the  shoulders. 

"  Promise,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  never  tell  what  you  have 
seen." 

Davy  struggled  to  free  himself,  but  his  frantic  efforts  were 
useless.     In  Dan's  grip  he  was  held  as  in  a  vice. 

"  Let  me  go,  Mastha  Dan,"  the  lad  cried. 

''Promise  to  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Dan;  ''promise  it, 
promise  it." 

"  Let  me  go,  will  you  .^  let  me  go,"  the  lad  shouted  sullenly 

143 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  Be  quiet/'  said  Dan. 

"  I  won't  be  quiet/'  was  the  stubborn  answer.  "  Help  !  help  J 
help  !  "  and  the  lad  screamed  lustily. 

''Hold  your  tongue,  or  by  G '* 

Dan  held  Davy  by  one  of  his  great  hands  hitched  into  the 
lad's  guernsey,  and  he  lifted  the  other  hand  threateningly. 

"  Help  !  help  !  help  !  "  Davy  screamed  still  louder,  and 
struggled  yet  more  fiercely,  until  his  strength  was  spent,  and 
his  breath  was  gone,  and  then  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

The  desolate  place  was  still  as  desolate  as  before.  Not  a 
sign  of  life  around  ;  not  an  answering  cry. 

"  There's  nobody  to  help  you,"  said  Dan.  "  You  have  got  to 
promise  never  to  tell  what  you  have  seen  to  man,  woman,  or 
child." 

"  I  won't  promise,  and  I  won't  hould  my  tongue,"  said  the 
lad  stoutly.  "  You  are  goin'  to  fight,  you  and  Mastha  Ewan, 
and " 

Dan  stopped  him.  "  Hearken  here.  If  you  are  to  live  another 
hour,  you  will  promise " 

But  Davy  had  regained  both  strength  and  voice. 

"  I  don't  care — help  !  help  !  help  !  "  he  shouted. 

Dan  put  his  hand  over  the  lad's  mouth,  and  dragged  him  to 
the  cliff  head.  Below  was  the  brant  steep,  dark  and  jagged 
and  quivering  in  the  deepening  gloom,  and  the  sea-birds  were 
darting  through  the  mid-air  like  bats  in  the  dark. 

"Look,"  said  Dan,  "you've  got  to  swear  never  to  tell  what 
you  have  seen  to-night,  so  help  you  God." 

The  lad,  held  tightly  by  the  breast  and  throat,  and  gripping 
the  arms  that  held  him  with  fingers  that  clung  like  claws,  took 
one  horrified  glance  down  into  the  darkness.  He  struggled 
no  longer.     His  face  was  very  pitiful  to  see. 

"  I  cannot  promise,"  he  said  in  a  voice  like  a  cry. 

At  that  answer  Dan  drew  Davy  back  from  the  cliff  edge, 
and  loosed  his  hold  of  him.  He  was  abashed  and  ashamed. 
He  felt  himself  a  little  man  by  the  side  of  this  half-daf^ 
fisher-lad. 

All  this  time  Ewan  had  stood  aside  looking  on  while  Dan 
demanded  the  promise,  and  saying  nothing.  Now  he  went  up 
to  Davy,  and  said  in  a  quiet  voice — 

"  Davy,  if  you  should  ever  tell  any  one  what  you  have  seen, 
Dan  will  be  a  lost  man  all  his  life  hereafter." 

"Then  let  him  pitch  me  over  the  cliff,"  said  Davy  in  a 
smothered  cry, 

144 


BLIND   PASSION  AND   PAIN 

"  Listen  to  me,  Davy/'  Ewan  went  on  ;  "  you're  a  brave  lad, 
''and  I  know  what's  in  your  head,  but " 

"  Then  what  for  do  you  want  to  fight  him  ?  "  Davy  broke  out. 

The  lad's  throat  was  dry  and  husky,  and  his  eyes  were  grow- 
ing dim. 

Ewan  paused.  Half  his  passion  was  spent.  Davy's  poor 
dense  head  had  found  him  a  question  that  he  could  not  answer. 

"  Davy,  if  you  don't  promise,  you  will  ruin  Dan — yes,  it  will 
be  you  who  will  ruin  him — you,  remember  that.  He  will  be 
a  lost  man,  and  my  sister,  my  good  sister  Mona,  she  will  be 
a  broken-hearted  woman." 

Then  Davy  broke  down  utterly,  and  big  tears  filled  his  eyes 
and  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"  I  promise,"  he  sobbed. 

"  Good  lad ! — now  go." 

Davy  turned  about  and  went  away,  at  first  running,  and  then 
dragging  slowly,  then  running  again,  and  then  again  lingering. 

What  followed  was  a  very  pitiful  conflict  of  emotion.  Nature, 
who  looks  down  pitilessly  on  man  and  his  big  little  passions, 
that  clamour  so  loud  but  never  touch  her  at  all — even  Nature 
played  her  part  in  this  tragedy. 

When  Davy  Fayle  was  gone,  Dan  and  Ewan  stood  face  to 
face  as  before,  Dan  with  his  back  to  the  cliff,  Ewan  with  his 
face  to  the  sea.  Then,  without  a  word,  each  turned  aside  and 
picked  up  his  militia  belt. 

The  snowflakes  had  thickened  during  the  last  few  moments, 
but  now  they  seemed  to  cease  and  the  sky  to  lighten.  Suddenly 
in  the  west  the  sky  was  cloven  as  though  by  the  sweep  of  a 
sword,  and  under  a  black  bar  of  cloud  and  above  a  silvered 
water-line  the  sun  came  through  very  red  and  hazy  in  its 
setting,  and  with  its  ragged  streamers  around  it. 

Ewan  was  buckling  the  belt  about  his  waist  when  the  set- 
ting sun  rose  upon  them,  and  all  at  once  there  came  to  him 
the  Scripture  that  says,  "Let  not  the  sun  go  down  on  your 
wrath."  If  God's  hand  had  appeared  in  the  heavens,  the  effect 
on  Ewan  could  not  have  been  greater.  Already  his  passion 
was  more  than  half  gone,  and  now  it  melted  entirely  away. 

"  Dan,"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  was  a  sob,  "  Dan,  I  cannot 
fight — right  or  wrong,  I  cannot,"  and  he  flung  himself  down^ 
and  the  tears  filled  his  eyes. 

Then  Dan,  whose  face  was  afire,  laughed  loud  and  bitterly. 
"  Coward,"  he  said,  "  coward  and  poltroon ! " 

145 


THE  DEEMSTER 

At  that  word  all  the  evil  passion  came  back  to  Ewan,  and 
he  leapt  to  his  feet. 

"That  is  enough/*  he  said;  "the  belts — ^buckle  them  to- 
gether." 

Dan  understood  Ewan's  purpose.  At  the  next  breath  the 
belt  about  Dan's  waist  was  buckled  to  the  belt  about  the 
waist  of  Ewan,  and  the  two  men  stood  strapped  together. 
Then  they  drew  the  daggers,  and  an  awful  struggle  followed. 
With  breast  to  breast  until  their  flesh  all  but  touched,  and 
with  thighs  entwined,  they  reeled  and  swayed,  the  right  hand 
of  each  held  up  for  thrust,  the  left  for  guard  and  parry.  What 
Dan  gained  in  strength  Ewan  made  up  in  rage,  and  the  fight 
was  fierce  and  terrible ;  Dan  still  with  his  back  to  the  cliff, 
Ewan  still  with  his  face  to  the  sea. 

At  one  instant  Dan,  by  his  great  stature,  had  reached  over 
Ewan's  shoulder  to  thrust  from  behind,  and  at  the  next  instant 
Ewan  had  wrenched  his  lithe  body  backwards  and  had  taken 
the  blow  in  his  lifted  arm,  which  forthwith  spouted  blood 
above  the  wrist.  In  that  encounter  they  reeled  about,  chang- 
ing places,  and  Ewan's  back  was  henceforward  towards  the 
cliff,  and  Dan  fought  with  his  face  towards  the  sea. 

It  was  a  hideous  and  savage  fight.  The  sun  had  gone  down, 
the  cleft  in  the  heavens  had  closed  again,  once  more  the  thin 
flakes  of  snow  were  falling,  and  the  world  had  dropped  back 
to  its  dark  mood.  A  stormy  petrel  came  up  from  the  cliff 
and  swirled  above  the  men  as  they  fought,  and  made  its  dire- 
ful scream  over  them. 

Up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  embracing  closely,  clutching, 
guarding,  and  meantime  panting  hoarsely,  and  drawing  hard 
breath,  the  two  men  fought  in  their  deadly  hate.  At  last 
they  had  backed  and  swayed  to  within  three  yards  of  the  cliff, 
and  then  Ewan,  with  the  gasp  of  a  drowning  man,  flung  his 
weapon  into  the  air,  and  Dan  ripped  his  dagger's  edge  across 
the  belts  that  bound  them  together,  and  at  the  next  breath 
the  belts  M'^ere  cut,  and  the  two  were  divided,  and  Ewan, 
separated  from  Dan,  and  leaning  heavily  backward,  was  reel- 
ing, by  force  of  his  own  weight,  toward  the  cliff. 

Then  Dan  stood  as  one  transfixed  with  uplifted  hand,  and 
a  deep  groan  came  from  his  throat.  Passion  and  pain  were 
gone  from  him  in  that  awful  moment,  and  the  world  itself 
seemed  to  be  blotted  out.  When  he  came  to  himself,  he  was 
standing  on  the  cUff  head  alone. 

146 


BLIND    PASSION   AND   PAIN 

The  clock  in  the  old  church  was  striking.  How  the  bell 
echoed  on  that  lonely  height !  One — two — three — four — five. 
Five  o'clock  !  Everything  else  was  silent  as  death.  The  day 
was  gone.  The  snow  began  to  fall  in  thick  large  flakes.  It 
fell  heavily  on  Dan's  hot  cheeks  and  bare  neck.  His  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still,  and  the  very  silence  itself  was  awful. 
His  terror  stupefied  him.  "  Wliat  have  I  done  ?  "  he  asked  him- 
self. He  could  not  think.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
and  strode  up  and  down  the  chff  head,  up  and  down,  up  and 
down.  Then  in  a  bewildered  state  of  semi-consciousness  he 
looked  out  to  sea,  and  there  far  off,  a  league  away,  he  saw  a 
black  thing  looming  large  against  the  darkening  sky.  He  re- 
cognised that  it  was  a  sail,  and  then  perceived  that  it  was  a 
lugger,  and  quite  mechanically  he  tried  to  divide  the  mainmast 
and  mizzen,  the  mainsail  and  yawlsail,  and  to  note  if  the  boat 
were  fetching  to  leeward  or  beating  down  the  Channel. 

All  at  once  sea  and  sky  were  blotted  out,  and  he  could  not 
stand  on  his  legs,  but  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  great  beads 
of  perspiration  rolled  down  his  face  and  neck.  He  tried  to 
call  "  Ewan !  Ewan ! "  but  he  could  not  utter  the  least  cry. 
His  throat  was  parched ;  his  tongue  swelled  and  filled  his 
mouth.  His  lips  moved,  but  no  words  came  from  him.  Then 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  world  flowed  back  upon  him ;  the 
sea-fowl  crying  over  his  head,  the  shrillness  of  the  wind  in  the 
snow-capped  gorse,  and  the  sea's  hoarse  voice  swelling  upwards 
through  the  air,  while  its  heavy,  monotonous  blow  on  the  beach 
shook  the  earth  beneath  him.  If  anything  else  had  appeared 
to  Dan  at  that  moment,  he  must  have  screamed  with  terror. 

Quaking  in  every  limb,  he  picked  up  his  clothes  and  turned 
back  towards  the  shore.  He  was  so  feeble  that  he  could 
scarcely  walk  through  the  snow  that  now  lay  thick  on  the 
short  grass.  When  he  reached  the  mouth  of  the  gully,  he  did 
not  turn  into  the  shed,  but  went  on  over  the  pebbles  of  the 
creek.  His  bloodshot  eyes,  which  almost  started  from  their 
sockets,  glanced  eagerly  from  side  to  side.  At  last  he  saw 
the  thing  he  sought,  and  now  that  it  was  under  him,  within 
reach  of  his  hand,  he  dare  hardly  look  upon  it. 

At  the  foot  of  a  jagged  crag  that  hung  heavily  over  from 
the  cliff  the  body  of  Ewan  Mylrea  lay  dead  and  cold.  There 
was  no  mark  of  violence  upon  it  save  a  gash  on  the  wrist  of  the 
left  hand,  and  over  the  wound  there  was  a  clot  of  blood.  The 
white  face  lay  deep  in  the  breast,  as  if  the  neck  had  been 

147 


THE   DEEMSTER 

dislocated.  There  were  no  other  outward  marks  of  injury 
from  the  fall.  The  body  was  outstretched  on  its  back,  with 
one  ann — the  left  arm — lying  half  over  the  forehead,  and  the 
other,  the  right  arm,  with  the  hand  open  and  the  listless 
lingers  apart,  thrown  loosely  aside. 

Dan  knelt  beside  the  body,  and  his  heart  was  benumbed 
like  ice.  He  tried  to  pray,  but  no  prayer  would  come,  and 
he  could  not  weep. 

"  Ewan  !  Ewan  ! "  he  cried  at  length,  and  his  voice  of  agony 
rolled  round  the  corpse  like  the  soughing  of  the  wind. 

"  Ewan  !  Ewan  !  "  he  cried  again  ;  but  only  the  sea's  voice 
broke  the  silence  that  followed.  Then  his  head  fell  on  the 
cold  breast,  and  his  arms  covered  the  lifeless  body,  and  he 
cried  upon  God  to  have  mercy  on  him,  and  to  hft  up  His  hand 
against  him  and  cut  him  off. 

Presently  he  got  on  his  feet,  and,  scarcely  knowing  what 
he  was  doing,  he  lifted  the  body  in  his  arms,  with  the  head 
lying  backwards  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  white  face  looking 
up  in  its  stony  stare  to  the  darkening  heavens.  As  he  did  so 
his  eyes  were  raised  to  the  cliff,  and  there,  clearly  outlined 
over  the  black  crags  and  against  the  somewhat  lighter  sky, 
he  saw  the  figure  of  a  man. 

He  toiled  along  towards  the  shed.  He  Was  so  weak  that 
he  could  scarce  keep  on  his  legs,  and  when  he  reached  the 
little  place  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek  he  was  more  dead  than 
alive.  He  put  the  body  to  lie  on  the  bed  of  straw  on  which 
he  had  himself  slept  and  dreamt  an  hour  before.  Then  all 
at  once  he  felt  a  low  sort  of  cunning  coming  over  him,  and  he 
went  back  to  the  door  and  shut  it,  and  drew  the  long  wooden 
bolt  into  its  iron  hoop  on  the  jamb. 

He  had  hardly  done  so  when  he  heard  an  impatient  foot- 
step on  the  shingle  outside.  In  another  instant  the  latch  was 
lifted  and  the  door  pushed  heavily.  Then  there  was  a  knock. 
Dan  made  no  answer,  but  stood  very  still  and  held  his  breath. 
There  was  another  knock,  and  another.  Then  in  a  low  tremu- 
lous murmur  there  came  the  words : 

"Where  is  he?  God  A'mighty!  where  is  he.^'*  It  was 
Davy  Fayle.     Another  knock,  louder,  and  still  no  reply. 

"  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan,  they're  coming ;  Mastha  Dan, 
God  A'mighty  ! " 

Davy  was  now  tramping  restlessly  to  and  fro.  Dan  was  try- 
ing to  consider  what  it  was  best  to  do — whether  to  open  to 

148 


BLIND   PASSION   AND   PAIN 

Davy  and  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  or  to  carry  it  off  as  if  he 
were  not  within — when  another  foot  sounded  on  the  shingle, 
and  cut  short  his  meditations. 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Ewan — Parson  Ewan  ?  " 

Dan  recognised  the  voice.   It  was  the  voice  of  Jarvis  Kerruish. 

Davy  did  not  answer  immediately. 

'' Have  you  seen  him,  eh?" 

"  No,  sir,"  Davy  faltered. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once  ?  It  is  very  strange. 
The  people  said  he  was  walking  towards  the  creek.  There's 
no  way  out  in  this  direction,  is  there .'' " 

"  Way  out — this  direction  }     Yes,  sir,"  Davy  stammered. 

"  How  ?     Show  me  the  way." 

"  By  the  sea,  sir." 

"  The  sea !     Simpleton !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  *' 

"  Waiting  for  the  boat,  sir." 

"  What  shed  is  this  }  " 

Dan  could  hear  that  at  this  question  Davy  was  in  a  fever  of 
excitement. 

"  Only  a  place  for  bits  of  net  and  cable,  and  all  to  that,"  said 
Davy  eagerly. 

Dan  could  feel  that  Jarvis  had  stepped  up  to  the  shed,  and 
that  he  was  trying  to  look  in  through  the  little  window. 

"  Do  you  keep  a  fire  to  warm  your  nets  and  cables  .'* "  he  asked 
in  a  suspicious  tone. 

At  the  next  moment  he  was  trying  to  force  the  door.  Dan 
stood  behind.  The  bolt  creaked  in  the  hasp.  If  the  hasp 
should  give  way,  he  and  Jarvis  would  stand  face  to  face. 

"Strange — there's  something  strange  about  all  this,"  said 
the  man  outside.  "1  heard  a  scream  as  I  came  over  the 
Head.     Did  you  hear  anything  }  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  heard  nothing,"  said  Davy  sullenly. 

Dan  grew  dizzy,  and,  groping  for  something  to  cling  to,  his 
hand  scraped  across  the  door. 

"  Wait !  I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  something  move  inside. 
Who  keeps  the  key  of  this  shed  }  " 

"  Kay  }     There's  never  a  kay  at  the  like  of  it." 

"Then  howis  it  fastened.''  From  within.^  Wait — let  me  see," 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  brushing  of  a  hand  over  the  out 
side  face  of  the  door. 

"  Has  the  snow  stopped  up  the  keyhole,  or  is  there  no  such 
thing  }     Or  is  the  door  fastened  by  a  padlock  }  " 

14Q 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Dan  had  regained  his  self-possession  by  this  time.  He  felt 
an  impulse  to  throw  the  door  open.  He  groped  at  his  waist 
for  the  dagger,  but  belt  and  dagger  were  both  gone. 

"  All  this  is  very  strange,"  said  Jarvis,  and  then  he  seemed 
to  turn  from  the  door  and  move  away. 

"  Stop  !  Where  is  the  man  Dan — the  captain  ?  "  he  asked, 
from  a  little  distance. 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Davy  stoutly. 

"That's  a  lie,  my  lad." 

Then  the  man's  footsteps  went  off  in  dull  beats  on  the  snow- 
clotted  pebbles. 

After  a  moment's  silence  there  was  a  soft  knocking ;  Davy 
had  crept  up  to  the  door. 

"  Mastha  Dan,"  he  whispered,  amid  panting  breath. 

Dan  did  not  stir.     The  latch  was  lifted  in  vain. 

"  Mastha  Dan,  Mastha  Dan."     The  soft  knocking  continued. 

Dan  found  his  voice  at  last. 

''  Go  away,  Davy ;  go  away,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  there  came  from  without 
an  answer  like  a  sob. 

''I'm  going,  Mastha  Dan." 

After  that  all  was  silent  as  death.  Half  an  hour  later,  Dan 
Mylrea  was  walking  through  the  darkness  towards  Ballamona. 
In  his  blind  misery  he  was  going  to  Mona.  The  snow  was  not 
falling  now,  and  in  the  lift  of  the  storm  the  sky  was  lighter 
than  it  had  been.  As  Dan  passed  the  old  church,  he  could  just 
descry  the  clock.  The  snow  lay  thick  on  the  face,  and  clogged 
the 'hands.     The  clock  had  stopped.     It  stood  at  five  exactly. 

The  blind  leading  that  is  seen  here  of  passion  by  accident  is 
seen  everywhere  that  great  tragedies  are  done.  It  is  not  the 
evil  in  man's  heart  more  than  the  deep  perfidy  of  circumstance 
that  brings  him  to  crime. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    VOICE    IN    THE    NIGHT 

However  bleak  the  night,  however  dark  the  mood  of  the  world 
might  be,  there  was  a  room  in  Ballamona  that  was  bright  with 
one  beautiful  human  flower  in  bloom.  Mona  was  there — Mona 
of  the  quiet  eyes  and  the  silent  ways  and  the  little  elfish  head 

150 


THE  VOICE   IN  THE  NIGHT 

It  was  Christmas  Eve  with  her  as  with  other  people,  and  she 
was  dressing  the  house  inhibbin  and  hollin  from  a  great  moun- 
tain of  both,  that  Hommy-beg  had  piled  up  in  the  hall.  She 
was  looking  very  smart  and  happy  that  night  in  her  short  body 
of  homespun  turned  in  from  neck  to  waist,  showing  a  white 
habit-shirt  and  a  white  handkerchief  crossed  upon  it;  a  quilted 
overskirt  and  linen  apron  that  did  not  fall  so  low  as  to  hide 
the  open-work  stockings  and  the  sandal-shoes.  Her  room,  too, 
was  bright  and  sweet,  with  its  glowing  fire  of  peat  and  logs 
on  the  wide  hearth,  its  lamp  on  the  square  oak  table,  and  the 
oak  settle  drawn  up  between  them.  In  one  comer  of  the 
settle,  bubbling  and  babbling  and  sputtering  and  cooing  amid 
a  very  crater  of  red  baize  cushions,  was  Mona's  foster-child, 
Ewan's  motherless  daughter,  lying  on  her  back  and  fighting 
the  air  with  clenched  fists. 

While  Mona  picked  out  the  hibbin  from  the  hollin,  dissected 
both,  made  arches  and  crosses  and  crowns  and  rosettes,  and 
then  sprinkled  flour  to  resemble  snow  on  the  red  berries  and 
the  green  leaves,  she  sang  an  old  Manx  ballad  in  snatches,  or 
prattled  to  the  little  one  in  that  half-articulate  tongue  that 
comes  with  the  instinct  of  motherhood  to  every  good  woman 
that  God  ever  makes : — 

"  I  rede  ye  beware  of  the  Carrasdoo  men 
As  ye  come  up  the  wold ; 
I  rede  ye  beware  of  the  haunted  glen ** 

But  a  fretful  whimper  would  interrupt  the  singer. 
''  Hush,  hush,  Ailee  darling,  hush." 

The  whimper  would  be  hushed,  and  again  there  would  be 
a  snatch  of  the  ballad  : — 

"  In  Jorby  Curragh  they  dwell  alone 
By  dark  peat  bogs,  where  the  willows  moan, 
Down  in  a  gloomy  and  lonely  glen " 

Once  again  the  whimper  would  stop  the  song. 

''Hush,  darling;  papa  is  coming  to  Ailee,  yes;  and  Ailee 
will  see  papa,  yes,  and  papa  will  see  Ailee,  yes,  and  Ailee " 

Then  a  long,  low  gurgle,  a  lovely  head  leaning  over  the 
back  of  the  settle  and  dropping  to  the  middle  of  the  pillow 
like  a  lark  to  its  nest  in  the  grass,  a  long  liquid  kiss  on  the 
soft  romid  baby  legs,  and  then  a  perfect  fit  of  baby  laughter. 

151 


THE   DEEMSTER 

It  was  as  pretty  a  picture  as  the  world  had  in  it  on  that 
bleak  Christmas  Eve.  Whatever  tumult  might  reign  without, 
there  within  was  a  nest  of  peace. 

Mona  was  expecting  Ewan  at  Ballamona  that  night,  and 
now  she  was  waiting  for  his  coming.  It  was  true  that  when 
he  was  there  three  hours  ago  it  was  in  something  like  anger  that 
they  had  parted,  but  Mona  recked  nothing  of  that.  She  knew 
Ewan's  impetuous  temper  no  better  than  his  conciliatory  spirit. 
He  would  come  to-night  as  he  had  promised  yesterday,  and  if 
there  had  been  anger  between  them  it  would  then  be  gone. 

Twenty  times  she  glanced  at  the  little  clock  with  the  lion 
face  and  the  pendulum  like  a  dog's  head  that  swung  above 
the  ingle.  Many  a  time,  with  head  aslant,  with  parted  lips, 
and  eyes  alight,  she  cried  "  Hark ! "  to  the  Httle  one  when  a 
footstep  would  sound  in  the  hall.  But  Ewan  did  not  come, 
and  meantime  the  child  grew  more  and  more  fretful  as  her 
bed-time  approached.  At  length  Mona  undressed  her  and 
carried  her  off  to  her  crib  in  the  room  adjoining,  and  sang 
softly  to  her  while  she  struggled  hard  with  sleep  under  the 
oak  hood  with  the  ugly  beasts  carved  on  it,  until  sleep  had 
conquered  and  all  was  silence  and  peace.  Then,  leaving  a 
tallow  dip  burning  on  the  table  between  the  crib  and  the 
bed,  lest  perchance  the  little  one  should  awake  and  cry  from 
fear  of  the  darkness,  Mona  went  back  to  her  sitting-room  to 
finish  off  the  last  bunch  of  the  hibbin  and  hollin. 

The  last  bunch  was  a  bit  of  prickly  green,  with  a  cluster  of 
the  reddest  berries,  and  Mona  hung  it  over  a  portrait  of  her 
brother,  which  was  painted  by  a  great  artist  from  England 
when  Ewan  was  a  child.  The  Deemster  had  turned  the 
portrait  out  of  the  dining-room  after  the  painful  interview 
at  Bishop's  Court  about  the  loan  and  surety,  and  Mona  had 
found  it,  face  to  the  wall,  in  a  lumber-room.  She  looked  at 
it  now  with  a  new  interest.  When  she  hung  the  hollin  over 
it  she  recognised  for  the  first  time  a  resemblance  to  the  little 
Aileen  whom  she  had  just  put  to  bed.  How  strange  it  seemed 
that  Ewan  had  once  been  a  child  like  Ailee ! 

Then  she  began  to  feel  that  Ewan  was  late  in  coming,  and 
to  make  conjectures  as  to  the  cause  of  his  delay.  Her  father's 
house  was  fast  becoming  a  cheerless  place  to  her.  More  than 
ever  the  Deemster  was  lost  to  her.  Jarvis  Kerruish,  her  stranger 
brother,  was  her  father's  companion  ;  and  this  seemed  to  draw 
her  closer  to  Ewan  for  solace  and  cheer. 

15-2 


THE  VOICE   IN   THE   NIGHT 

Then  she  sat  on  the  settle  to  thread  some  loose  berries  that 
had  fallen,  and  to  think  of  Dan — the  high-spirited,  reckless, 
rollicking,  headstrong,  tender-hearted,  thoughtless,  brave, 
stubborn,  daring,  dear,  dear  Dan — Dan,  who  was  very,  very 
much  to  her  in  her  great  loneliness.  Let  other  people  rail  at 
Dan  if  they  would  ;  he  was  wrapped  up  with  too  many  of  her 
fondest  memories  to  allow  of  disloyalty  like  that.  Dan  would 
yet  justify  her  belief  in  him.  Oh  yes,  he  would  yet  be  a  great 
man,  all  the  world  would  say  it  was  so,  and  she  would  be  very 
proud  that  he  was  her  cousin — ^yes,  her  cousin,  or  perhaps, 

perhaps And  then,  without  quite  daring  to  follow  up  that 

delicious  train  of  thought,  even  in  her  secret  heart,  though 
none  might  look  there  and  say  if  it  was  unmaidenly,  Mona 
came  back  to  the  old  Manx  ballad,  and  sang  to  herself  another 
verse  of  it : — 

"  Who  has  not  heard  of  Adair,  the  youth  ? 
Who  does  not  know  that  his  soul  was  truth  T 
Woe  is  me  !  how  smoothly  they  speak, 
And  Adair  was  brave,  and  a  man,  but  weak." 

All  at  once  her  hand  went  up  to  her  forehead,  and  the  words 
of  the  old  song  seemed  to  have  a  new  signifi  evince.  Hardly 
had  her  voice  stopped  and  her  last  soft  note  ceased  to  ring  in 
the  quiet  room,  when  she  thought  she  heard  her  own  name 
called  twice — "  Mona  !  Mona  !  " 

The  voice  was  Ewan's  voice,  and  it  seemed  to  come  from  her 
bedroom.  She  rose  from  the  settle,  and  went  into  her  room. 
There  was  no  one  there  save  the  child.  The  little  one  was  dis- 
turbed in  her  sleep  at  the  moment,  and  was  twisting  restlessly, 
making  a  faint  cry.  It  was  very  strange.  The  voice  had  been 
Ewan's  voice,  and  it  had  been  deep  and  tremulous  as  the  voice 
of  one  in  trouble. 

Presently  the  child  settled  itself  to  sleep,  all  was  silent  as  be- 
fore, and  Mona  went  back  to  the  sitting-room.  Scarcely  was 
she  seated  afresh  when  she  heard  the  voice  again,  and  it  again 
called  her  twice  by  name,  "  Mona  !  Mona ! "  in  the  same  tremu- 
lous tone,  but  very  clear  and  distinct. 

Then  tremblingly  Mona  rose  once  more  and  went  into  her 
room,  for  thence  the  voice  seemed  to  come.  No  one  was  there. 
The  candle  burnt  fitfully,  and  suddenly  the  child  cried  in  its 
sleep — that  strange  night  cry  that  freezes  the  blood  of  one 
who  is  awake  to  hear  it.  It  was  very,  very  strange. 
11  153 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Feeling  faint,  hardly  able  to  keep  on  her  feet,  Mona  went 
back  to  the  sitting-room  and  opened  the  door  that  led  into 
the  hall.  No  one  seemed  to  be  stirring.  The  door  of  her 
father's  study  opposite  was  closed,  and  there  was  talking — 
the  animated  talking  of  two  persons — within. 

Mona  turned  back,  closed  her  door  quietly,  and  then,  sum- 
moning all  her  courage,  she  walked  to  the  window  and  drew 
the  heavy  curtains  aside.  The  hoops  from  which  they  hung 
rattled  noisily  over  the  pole.  Putting  her  face  close  to  the 
glass,  and  shading  her  eyes  from  the  light  of  the  lamp  behind 
her,  she  looked  out.  She  saw  that  the  snow  had  fallen  since 
the  lamp  had  been  lit  at  dusk.  There  was  snow  on  the 
ground,  and  thin  snow  on  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  trees. 
She  could  see  nothing  else.  She  even  pushed  up  the  sash  and 
called — 

"  Who  is  there  }  " 

But  there  came  no  answer.  The  wind  moaned  about  the 
house  and  the  sea  rumbled  in  the  distance.  She  pulled  the 
sash  down  again. 

Then,  leaving  the  curtain  drawn  back,  she  turned  again  into 
the  room,  and,  partly  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  mysterious 
apprehensions  that  had  seized  it,  she  sat  down  at  the  little 
harpsichord  that  stood  on  the  farther  side  of  the  ingle  against 
the  wall  that  ran  at  right  angles  from  the  window. 

At  first  her  fingers  ran  nervously  over  the  keys,  but  they 
gained  force  as  she  went  on,  and  the  volume  of  sound  seemed 
to  dissipate  her  fears. 

^'  It  is  nothing,"  she  thought.  ''  I  have  been  troubled  about 
what  Ewan  said  to-day,  and  I'm  nervous — that  is  all." 

And  as  she  played  her  eyes  looked  not  at  the  finger-board, 
but  across  her  shoulder  towards  the  bare  window.  Then  sud- 
denly there  came  to  her  a  sensation  that  made  her  flesh  creep. 
It  was  as  if  from  the  darkness  outside  there  were  eyes  which 
she  could  not  see  looking  steadily  in  upon  her  where  she  sat. 

Her  blood  rushed  to  her  head,  she  felt  dizzy,  the  playing 
ceased,  and  she  clung  by  one  hand  to  the  candle-rest  of  the 
harpsichord.  Then  once  more  she  distinctly  heard  the  same 
deep,  tremulous  voice  call  her  by  her  name — "  Mona !  Mona  !  '* 

Faint  and  all  but  reeling  she  rose  again,  and  again  made  her 
way  to  the  bedroom.  As  before,  the  child  was  restless  in  her 
sleep.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  air  were  charged.  Mona  had 
almost  fallen  from  fright,  when  all  at  once  she  heard  a  sound 

154 


THE  VOICE   IN  THE   NIGHT 

that  she  could  not  mistake,  and  instantly  she  recovered  some 
self-possession. 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  window  of  her  sitting-room  being 
thrown  open  from  without  She  ran  back,  and  saw  Dan  Mylrea 
climbing  into  the  room. 

''  Dan  ! "  she  cried. 

"  Mona." 

"  Did  you  call  ?  " 

"When?" 

"  Now — a.  little  while  ago  }  ** 

"No." 

A  great  trembling  shook  Dan's  whole  frame.  Mona  per- 
ceived it,  and  a  sensation  of  disaster  not  yet  attained  to  the 
clearness  of  an  idea  took  hold  of  her. 

'' Where  is  Ewan  ?  "  she  said. 

He  tried  to  avoid  her  gaze.  "  Why  do  you  ask  for  him  ?  " 
said  Dan  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  she  asked  again. 

He  grew  dizzy,  and  laid  hold  of  the  settle  for  support.  The 
question  she  asked  was  that  which  he  had  come  to  answer,  but 
his  tongue  clave  to  his  mouth. 

Very  pale  and  almost  rigid  from  the  heaviness  of  a  great 
fear  which  she  felt  but  could  not  understand,  she  watched 
him  when  he  reeled  like  a  drunken  man. 

"  He  has  called  me  three  times.  W^here  is  he .''  He  was  to 
be  here  to-night,"  she  said. 

"Ewan  will  not  come  to-night,"  he  answered,  scarcely 
audibly;  "not  to-night,  Mona,  or  to-morrow — or  ever — no, 
he  will  never  come  again." 

The  horrible  apprehension  that  had  taken  hold  of  her  leapt 
to  the  significance  of  his  words,  and,  almost  before  he  had 
spoken,  a  cry  burst  from  her. 

"  Ewan  is  dead — he  is  dead  ;  Mona,  our  Ewan,  he  is  dead," 
he  faltered. 

She  dropped  to  the  settle,  and  cried,  in  the  excess  of  her 
first  despair,  "Ewan,  Ewan,  to  think  that  I  shall  see  him  no 
more  ! "  and  then  she  wept.  All  the  time  Dan  stood  over 
her,  leaning  heavily  to  bear  himself  up,  trembling  visibly,  and 
with  a  look  of  great  agony  fixed  upon  her,  as  if  he  had  not 
the  strength  to  turn  his  eyes  away. 

"Yes,  yes,  our  Ewan  is  dead,"  he  repeated  in  a  murmur 
that  came  up  from  his  heart.    "  The  truest  friend,  the  fondest 

155 


THE   DEEMSTER 

brother,  the  whitest  soul,  the  dearest,  bravest,  purest,  noblest 
— O  God  !  O  God  !  dead,  dead  J  Worse,  a  hundredfold  worse 
— Mona,  he  is  murdered." 

At  that  she  raised  herself  up,  and  a  bewildered  look  was 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Murdered  ?  No,  that  is  not  possible.  He  was  beloved 
by  all.  There  is  no  one  who  would  kill  him — there  is  no  one 
alive  with  a  heart  so  black." 

'^Yes,  Mona,  but  there  is,"  he  said;  "there  is  one  man 
with  a  heart  so  black." 

"  Who  is  he  }" 

"  Who  }  He  is  the  foulest  creature  on  God's  earth.  Oh, 
God  in  heaven  !  why  was  he  bom .'' " 

'*  Who  is  he  }  " 

He  bowed  his  head  where  he  stood  before  her,  and  beads 
of  sweat  started  from  his  brow. 

"  Cursed  be  the  hour  when  that  man  was  bom ! "  he  said 
in  an  awful  whisper. 

Then  Mona's  despair  came  upon  her  like  a  torrent,  and 
she  wept  long.     In  the  bitterness  of  her  heart  she  cried — 

"  Cursed  indeed,  cursed  for  ever !  Dan,  Dan,  you  must 
kill  him — you  must  kill  that  man." 

But  at  the  sound  of  that  word  from  her  own  lips  the  spirit 
of  revenge  left  her  on  the  instant,  and  she  cried,  "  No,  no, 
not  that."  Then  she  went  down  on  her  knees  and  made  a 
short  and  piteous  prayer  for  forgiveness  for  her  thought.  "  O 
Father,"  she  prayed,  "forgive  me.  1  did  not  know  what  I 
said.  But  Ewan  is  dead !  O  Father,  our  dear  Ewan  is  mur- 
dered. Some  black-hearted  man  has  killed  him.  Vengeance 
is  Thine.  Yes,  I  know  that.  O  Father,  forgive  me.  But  to 
think  that  Ewan  is  gone  for  ever,  and  that  base  soul  lives  on. 
Vengeance  is  Thine ;  but,  O  Father,  let  Thy  vengeance  fall 
upon  him.  If  it  is  Thy  will,  let  Thy  hand  be  on  him.  Follow 
him,  Father  ;  follow  him  with  Thy  vengeance " 

She  had  flung  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  settle,  her  up- 
turned eyes  wide  open,  and  her  two  trembling  hands  held 
above  her  head.  Dan  stood  beside  her,  and  as  she  prayed  a 
deep  groan  came  up  from  his  heart,  his  breast  swelled,  and 
his  throat  seemed  to  choke.  At  last  he  clutched  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  interrupted  her  prayer,  and  cried, "  Mona,  Mona, 
what  are  you  saying — what  are  you  saying  }     Stop,  stop  ! " 

She  rose  to  her  feet.     "  I  have  done  wrong,"  she  said  more 

156 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE   NIGHT 

quietly.  "He  is  in  God's  hands.  Yes,  it  is  for  God  to 
punish  him." 

Then  Dan  said  in  a  heartrending  voice — 

''Mona,  he  did  not  mean  to  kill  Ewan — they  fought — it 
was  all  in  the  heat  of  blood." 

Once  more  he  tried  to  avoid  her  gaze,  and  once  more, 
pale  and  immovable,  she  watched  his  face. 

"  Who  is  he  .'* "  she  asked  with  an  awful  calmness. 

"  Mona,  turn  your  face  away  from  me,  and  I  will  tell  you," 
he  said. 

Then  everything  swam  about  her,  and  her  pale  lips  grew 
ashy. 

"  Don't  you  know  }"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

She  did  not  turn  her  face,  and  he  was  compelled  to  look 
at  her  now.     His  glaring  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her. 

"Don't  you  know.'*"  he  whispered  again;  and  then  in  a 
scarcely  audible  voice  he  said,  "It  was  I,  Mona." 

At  that  she  grew  cold  with  horror.  Her  features  became 
changed  beyond  recognition.  She  recoiled  from  him,  stretched 
her  trembling  hands  before  her  as  if  to  keep  him  off. 

"  Oh,  horror  !  Do  not  touch  me  ! "  she  cried  faintly  through 
the  breath  that  came  so  hard. 

"Do  not  spare  me,  Mona,"  he  said  in  a  great  sob.  "Do 
not  spare  me.  You  do  right  not  to  spare  me.  I  have  stained 
my  hands  with  your  blood." 

Then  she  sank  to  the  settle  and  held  her  head,  while  he 
stood  by  her  and  told  her  all — all  the  bitter  blundering  truth— 
and  bit  by  bit  she  grasped  the  tangled  tale,  and  realised  the 
blind  passion  and  pain  that  had  brought  them  to  such  a  pass, 
and  saw  her  own  unwitting  share  in  it. 

And  he  on  his  part  saw  the  product  of  his  headstrong  wrath, 
and  the  pitiful  grounds  for  it,  so  small  and  so  absurd  as 
such  grounds  oftenest  are.  And  together  these  shipwrecked 
voyagers  on  the  waters  of  life  sat  and  wept,  and  wondered 
what  evil  could  be  in  hell  itself  if  man  in  his  blindness  could 
find  the  world  so  full  of  it. 

And  Dan  cursed  himself  and  said — 

"  Oh,  the  madness  of  thinking  that  if  either  were  gone  the 
other  could  ever  again  know  one  hour's  happiness  with  you, 
Mona.  Ay,  though  the  crime  lay  hidden,  yet  would  it  wither 
and  blast  every  hour.  And  now,  behold,  at  the  first  moment, 
I  am  biinging  my  burden  of  sin,  too  heavy  for  myself,  to  you. 

157 


THE   DEEMSTER 

I  am  a  coward — yes,  I  am  a  coward.     You  will  turn  your  back 
upon  me,  Mona,  and  then  I  shall  be  alone." 

She  looked  at  him  with  infinite  compassion,  and  her  heart 
surged  within  her  as  she  listened  to  his  voice  of  great  agony. 

"Ah  me  !  and  I  asked  God  to  curse  you/'  she  said.  "Oh, 
how  wicked  that  prayer  was  !  Will  God  hear  it  ?  Merciful 
Father,  do  not  hear  it.  I  did  not  know  what  I  said.  1  am  a 
blind,  ignorant  creature,  but  Thou  seest  and  knowest  best. 
Pity  him,  and  forgive  him.  Oh  no,  God  will  not  hear  my 
wicked  prayer." 

Thus  in  fitful  outbursts  she  talked  and  prayed.  It  was  as 
if  a  tempest  had  torn  up  every  tie  of  her  soul.  Dan  listened, 
and  he  looked  at  her  with  swimming  eyes. 

"  And  do  you  pray  for  me,  Mona,"  he  said. 

"  Who  will  pray  for  you  if  I  do  not }  In  all  the  world  there 
will  not  be  one  left  to  speak  kindly  of  you  if  I  speak  ill.  Oh, 
Dan,  it  will  become  known,  and  every  one  will  be  against  you." 

"  And  can  you  think  well  of  him  who  killed  your  brother  }  " 

"  But  you  are  in  such  sorrow ;  you  are  so  miserable." 

Then  Dan's  great  frame  shook  woefully,  and  he  cried  in  his 
pain — "Mercy,  mercy,  have  mercy  !  What  have  I  lost }  What 
love  have  I  lost }  " 

At  that  Mona's  weeping  ceased  ;  she  looked  at  Dan  through 
her  lashes,  still  wet,  and  said  in  another  tone — 

"  Dan,  do  not  think  me  unmaidenly.  If  you  had  done  well, 
if  you  had  realised  my  hopes  of  you,  if  you  had  grown  to  be 
the  good  and  great  man  I  longed  to  see  you,  then,  though  I 
might  have  yearned  for  you,  I  would  rather  liave  died  with  my 
secret  than  speak  of  it.  But  now,  now  that  all  this  is  not  so, 
now  that  it  is  a  lost  faith,  now  that  by  God's  will  you  are 
to  be  abased  before  the  whole  world — oh,  do  not  think  me 
unmaidenly  now  I  tell  you,  Dan,  that  I  love  you,  and  have 
always  loved  you." 

"  Mona  ! "  he  cried  in  a  low,  passionate  tone,  and  took  one 
step  towards  her  and  held  out  his  hands.  There  was  an  un- 
speakable language  in  her  face. 

"  Yes ;  and  that  where  you  go  I  must  ^o  also,  though  it 
were  to  disgrace  and  shame " 

She  had  turned  towards  him  lovingly,  yearningly,  with 
heaving  breast.  With  a  great  cry  he  flung  his  arms  about 
her,  and  the  world  of  pain  and  sorrow  was  for  that  instant 
blotted  out. 

158 


THE  VOICE   IN   THE   NIGHT 

But  all  the  bitter  flood  came  rushing  back  upon  them.  He 
put  her  from  him  with  a  strong  shudder. 

"  We  are  clasping  hands  over  a  tomb,  Mona.  Our  love  is 
known  too  late.  We  are  mariners  cast  on  a  rock  within  a 
cable's  length  of  harbour,  but  cut  offfrom  it  by  a  cruel  sea  that 
may  never  be  passed.  We  are  hopeless  within  sight  of  hope. 
Our  love  is  known  in  vain.  It  is  a  vision  of  what  might  have 
been  in  the  days  that  are  lost  for  ever.  We  can  never  clasp 
hands,  for,  O  God  !  a  cold  hand  is  between  us  and  lies  in  the 
hand  of  both." 

Then  again  she  fell  to  weeping,  but  suddenly  she  arose  as 
if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea. 

"  You  will  be  taken,"  she  said  ;  "  how  can  I  have  forgotten 
it  so  long  ?  You  must  fly  from  the  island.  You  must  get 
away  to-night.     To-morrow  all  will  be  discovered." 

"  I  will  not  leave  the  island,"  said  Dan  firmly.  "  Can  you 
drive  me  from  you.}"  he  said  with  a  suppliant  look.  "Yes, 
you  do  well  to  drive  me  away." 

"  My  love,  I  do  not  drive  you  from  me.  I  w^ould  have  you 
here  for  ever.  But  you  will  be  taken.  Quick,  the  world  is 
wide." 

"  There  is  no  world  for  me  save  here,  Mona.  To  go  from 
you  now  is  to  go  for  ever,  and  I  would  rather  die  by  my  own 
hand  than  face  such  banishment." 

"  No,  no,  not  that ;  never,  never  that.  That  would  imperil 
your  soul,  and  then  we  should  be  divided  for  ever." 

"It  is  so  already,  Mona,"  said  Dan  with  solemnity.  "We 
are  divided  for  ever — as  the  blessed  are  divided  from  the 
damned." 

"  Don't  say  that — don't  say  that !  " 

'^Yes,  Mona,"  he  said,  with  a  fearful  calmness,  "we  have 
thought  of  my  crime  as  against  Ewan,  as  against  you,  myself, 
the  world,  and  its  law.  But  it  is  a  crime  against  God  also, 
and  surely  it  is  the  unpardonable  sin." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Dan.     There  is  one  great  anchor  of  hope." 

"  What  is  that,  Mona  }  " 

"  Ewan  is  with  God.  At  this  moment,  while  we  stand  heie 
together,  Ewan  sees  God." 

"Ah!" 

Dan  dropped  to  his  knees  with  awe  at  that  thought,  and 
drew  off  the  cap  which  he  had  worn  until  then,  and  bent  his 
head. 

159 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  Yes,  he  died  in  anger  and  in  strife/'  said  Mona ;  "  but  God 
is  merciful.  He  knows  the  feebleness  of  His  creatures,  and  has 
pity.  Yes,  our  dear  Ewan  is  with  God  ;  now  he  knows  what 
you  suffer,  my  poor  Dan ;  and  he  is  taking  blame  to  himself 
and  pleading  for  you." 

"  No,  no ;  I  did  it  all,  Mona.  He  would  not  have  fought. 
He  would  have  made  peace  at  the  last,  but  I  drove  him  on. 
'  I  cannot  fight,  Dan,'  he  said.  I  can  see  him  saying  it,  and 
the  sun  was  setting.  No,  it  was  not  fight,  it  was  murder. 
And  God  will  punish  me,  ray  poor  girl.  Death  is  ray  just 
punishment — everlasting  death." 

"  Wait.     I  know  what  is  to  be  done." 

"  What,  Mona  }  " 

"  You  must  make  atonement." 

"How.?" 

"You  must  give  yourself  up  to  justice  and  take  the  punish- 
ment of  the  law.  And  so  you  will  be  redeemed,  and  God  will 
forgive  you." 

He  listened,  and  then  said — 

"  And  such  is  to  be  the  end  of  our  love,  Mona,  bom  in  the 
hour  of  its  death.     You,  even  you,  give  me  up  to  justice." 

"Don't  say  that.  You  will  be  redeemed  by  atonement. 
When  Ewan  was  killed  it  was  woe  enough,  but  that  you  are 
under  God's  wrath  is  worse  than  if  we  were  all,  all  slain." 

"  Then  we  must  bid  farewell.  The  penalty  of  ray  crime  is 
death." 

"  No,  no ;  not  that." 

"  I  must  die,  Mona.     This,  then,  is  to  be  our  last  parting." 

"  A  nd  even  if  so,  it  is  best.  You  must  raake  your  peace  with 
God." 

"  And  you,  ray  last  refuge,  even  you  send  rae  to  ray  death. 
Well,  it  is  right,  it  is  just,  it  is  well.  Farewell,  ray  poor  girl ; 
this  is  a  sad  parting." 

"  Farewell." 

"  You  will  remeraber  me,  Mona  ?  " 

"  Remember  you  !  When  the  tears  I  shed  for  Ewan  are  dry  I 
shall  still  weep  for  you." 

There  was  a  faint  cry  at  that  raoraent. 

"Hush !"  said  Mona,  and  she  lifted  one  hand. 

"  It  is  the  child,"  she  added.     "  Come,  look  at  it." 

She  turned,  and  walked  towards  the  bedroom.  Dan  followed 
her  with  drooping  head.     TJie  little  one  had  again  been  restless 

160 


THE  VOICE   IN  THE   NIGHT 

in  her  sleep,  but  now,  with  a  long  breath,  she  settled  herself  in 
sweet  repose. 

At  sight  of  the  child  the  great  trembling  shook  Dan's 
frame  again.  "Mona,  Mona,  why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?" 
he  said. 

The  sense  of  his  crime  came  with  a  yet  keener  agony  when  he 
looked  down  at  the  child's  unconscious  face.  The  thought 
flashed  upon  him  that  he  had  made  this  innocent  babe  father- 
less, and  that  all  the  unprotected  years  were  before  her  wherein 
she  must  realise  her  loss. 

He  fell  to  his  knees  beside  the  cot,  and  his  tears  rained  down 
upon  it. 

Mona  had  lifted  the  candle  from  the  table,  and  she  held  it 
above  the  kneeling  man  and  the  sleeping  child. 

It  was  the  blind  woman's  vision  realised. 

When  Dan  rose  to  his  feet  he  was  a  stronger  man. 

"  Mona,"  he  said  resolutely,  "  you  are  right.  This  sin  must 
be  wiped  out." 

She  had  put  down  the  candle,  and  was  now  trying  to  take 
his  hand. 

''Don't  touch  me,"  he  said,  ''don't  touch  me." 

He  returned  to  the  other  room,  and  threw  open  the  window. 
His  face  was  turned  towards  the  distant  sea,  whose  low  moan 
came  up  through  the  dark  night. 

"  Dan,"  she  murmured,  "  doyou  think  we  shall  meet  again  '^ " 

"  Perhaps  we  are  speaking  for  the  last  time,  Mona,"  he 
answered. 

"  Oh,  my heartwill  break  ! "  she  said.  "  Dan,"  she  murmured 
again,  and  tried  to  grasp  his  hand. 

"  Don't  touch  me.     Not  until  later — not  until — until  then." 

Their  eyes  met.  The  longing,  yearning  look  in  hers  answered 
to  the  wild  light  in  his.  She  felt  as  if  this  were  the  last  she  was 
ever  to  see  of  Dan  in  this  weary  world.  He  loved  her  with  all 
his  great,  broken,  bleeding  heart.  He  had  sinned  for  her  sake. 
She  caught  both  his  hands  with  a  passionate  grasp.  Her  lips 
qu  ivered,  and  the  brave,  fearless,  stainless  girl  put  her  quivering 
lips  to  his. 

To  Dan  that  touch  was  as  fire.  With  a  passionate  cry  he 
flung  his  arms  about  her.  For  an  instant  her  head  lay  on  his 
breast. 

"  Now  go,"  she  whispered,  and  broke  from  his  embrace.  Dan 
tore  himself  away,  with  heart  and  brain  aflame.     W^ere  thev 

161 


THE  DEEMSTER 

ever  to  meet  again  ?  Yes.  At  one  great  moment  they  were 
yet  to  stand  face  to  face. 

The  night  was  dark,  but  Dan  felt  the  darkness  not  at  all,  for 
the  night  was  heavier  within  him.  He  went  down  towards  the 
creek.  To-morrow  he  would  give  himself  up  to  the  Deemster  • 
but  to-night  was  for  himself — himself  and  it. 

He  went  by  the  church.  A  noisy  company  were  just  then 
trooping  out  of  the  porch  into  the  churchyard.  There  they 
gathered  in  little  knots,  lit  lanterns,  laughed,  and  drank  healths 
from  bottles  that  were  brought  out  of  their  pockets. 

It  was  the  breaking  up  of  the  Oiel  Verree. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ALONE,  ALONE ALL,  ALL  ALONE  ! 

When  Dan  got  down  to  the  creek  the  little  shed  was  full  of  the 
fisher-fellows.  There  were  Quilleash,  Teare,  Crennell,  and  the 
lad  Davy.  The  men  wore  their  oilskins,  as  if  they  had  just 
stepped  out  of  the  dinghy  on  the  beach,  and  on  the  floor  were 
three  baskets  of  cod  and  ray,  as  if  they  had  just  set  them  down. 
The  fire  of  gorse  was  crackling  on  the  hearth,  and  Davy  sat 
beside  it,  looking  pale  and  ill.  He  had  watched  Dan  away  from 
the  shed,  and  then,  trembling  with  fear,  but  girding  up  his 
young  heart  to  conquer  it,  he  had  crept  back  and  kept  guard 
by  the  body. 

"  I  couldn't  give  myself  liberty  to  lave  it,"  he  said,  half  fear- 
fully, lifting  his  eyes  to  Dan's  as  Dan  entered.  Then  the  men, 
who  in  the  first  moment  of  horror  had  asked  Davy  fifty  ques- 
tions, and  got  never  an  answer  to  any  of  them,  seemed  to  under- 
stand everything  at  once.  They  made  way  for  Dan,  and  he 
strode  through  them,  and  looked  down  at  the  body,  for  it  was 
still  lying  where  he  had  left  it.     He  said  not  a  word. 

When  the  men  had  time  to  comprehend  in  its  awful  fulness 
what  had  occurred,  they  stood  together  and  whispered,  cast 
side  looks  at  Dan,  and  then  long  searching  looks  at  the  body. 
The  certainty  that  Ewan  was  dead  did  not  at  first  take  hold 
of  them.  There  was  no  mark  of  violence  on  the  body  except 
the  wound  above  the  wrist,  and  suddenly,  while  the  men  stood 
and  looked  down,  the  wound  bled  afresh.     Then  old  Quilleash, 

162 


ALONE,  ALONE— ALL,  ALL  ALQNE 

who  was  reputed  to  possess  a  charm  to  stop  blood,  knelt  beside 
Ewan,  and,  while  all  looked  on  and  none  spoke,  he  whispered 
his  spell  in  the  deaf  ear. 

"A  few  good  words  can  do  no  harm,"  said  Crennell,  the 
cook,  who  was  a  Quaker. 

Old  Quill  cash  whispered  again  in  the  dead  ear,  and  then  he 
made  a  wild  command  to  the  blood  to  cease  flowing  in  the 
name  of  the  three  godly  men  who  came  to  Rome — Christ, 
Peter,  and  Paul. 

There  was  a  minute  of  silence,  and  the  blood  seemed  to  stop. 
The  men  trembled ;  Davy,  the  lad,  grew  more  pale  than  before, 
and  Dan  stood  as  if  in  stupor,  looking  down  and  seeing  all, 
yet  seeing  nothing. 

Then  the  old  man  lifted  his  tawny  face.  "  Cha  marroo  as 
clagh"  he  said  in  another  hoarse  whisper.  ''He  is  dead  as  a 
stone." 

There  was  a  deep  groan  from  the  throats  of  the  men ;  they 
dropped  aside,  and  awe  fell  upon  them.  None  of  them  spoke 
to  Dan,  and  none  questioned  the  lad  again ;  but  all  seemed 
to  understand  everything  in  some  vague  way.  Billy  Quilleash 
sat  on  a  block  of  a  tree  trunk  that  stood  at  one  side,  and  there 
was  silence  for  a  space.  Then  the  old  man  turned  his  face  to 
his  mates  and  said,  "I'm  for  a  man  stickin'  up  for  a  frien', 

am. 

At  that  there  was  an  uneasy  movement  among  the  others. 

''Aw,  yes,  though,  a  man  should  stick  to  his  frien',  he 
should,  alow  or  aloft,  up  or  down,"  continued  Billy  ;  and  after 
some  twisting  and  muttering  among  the  other  fisher-fellows 
he  went  on,  "  You  have  to  summer  and  winter  a  man  before 
you  know  him,  and  lave  it  to  us  to  know  Mastha  Dan.    We've 

shared  meat,  shared  work  with  him,  and,  d me  sowl ! 

nothing  will  hould  me,  but  I'll  stand  up  for  him  now,  sink  or 
swim." 

Then  one  of  the  fellows  said,  "  Ay,"  and  another  said,  "  Ay," 
and  a  third — it  was  Crennell — said,  "A  friend  in  need  was 
more  preciouser  nor  goold ; "  and  then  old  Billy  half  twisted 
his  head  towards  Dan,  but  never  once  hfted  his  eyes  to  Dan's 
face,  and  speaking  at  him  but  not  to  him,  said  they  were  rough 
chaps  maybe,  and  couldn't  put  out  no  talk  at  all,  never  being 
used  of  it,  but  if  there  was  somethin'  wrong,  as  was  plain  to 
see,  and  keepin'  a  quiet  tongue  in  your  head  was  the  way  it 
was  goin',  and  buckin'  up  for  them  as  was  afther  buckin'  up 

163 


THE  DEEMSTER 

for  his  chums,  why,  a  frien'  was  a  frien',  and  they  meant  to 
stand  by  it. 

At  that,  these  rough  sea-dogs  with  the  big  hearts  in  their 
broad  breasts  took  hold  of  each  other's  hard  hands  in  a  circle 
about  the  body  of  Ewan,  whose  white  face  looked  up  at  them 
in  its  stony  stare,  and  there  in  the  little  lonely  shed  by  the 
sea  they  made  their  mutual  pledge. 

All  that  time  Dan  had  stood  and  looked  on  in  silence,  and 
Davy,  sitting  by  the  spluttering  fire,  sobbed  audibly  while 
Uncle  Billy  spoke. 

"  We  must  put  it  away,"  said  old  Billy  in  a  low  tone,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  bodj\ 

"  Ay,"  said  Ned  Teare. 

"  What's  o'clock  }  " 

"  A  piece  past  twelve." 

"  Half-flood.  It  will  be  near  the  turn  of  the  ebb  at  three," 
said  Quilleash.  " 

Not  another  word  of  explanation  was  needed,  all  under- 
standing that  they  must  take  the  body  of  Ewan  out  to  sea, 
and  bury  it  there  after  three  o'clock  next  morning,  so  that,  if 
it  stirred  after  it  was  sent  down  to  its  long  home,  it  must  be 
swept  away  over  the  Channel. 

"  Heise,"  said  one,  and  he  put  his  hand  down  to  lift  the 
body. 

"  Shoo ! " 

Dan  himself  stepped  aside  to  let  them  pass  out.  He  had 
watched  their  movements  with  wide  eyes.  They  went  by  him 
without  a  word.  When  they  were  gone  he  followed  them 
mechanically,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did.  Davy  went  after 
him. 

The  fishermen  stepped  out  into  the  night.  In  silence  they 
carried  the  body  of  Ewan  to  the  dinghy  that  lay  on  the  beach. 
All  got  into  the  boat  and  pushed  off.  It  was  very  dark  now, 
but  soon  they  came  athwart  the  hawse  of  the  Ben-mif-Chree, 
which  was  lying  at  anchor  below  low-water.  They  pulled  up, 
lifted  the  body  over  the  gunwale,  and  followed  it  into  the 
fishing-boat. 

"  There's  a  good  taste  of  a  breeze,"  said  old  Quilleash. 

In  five  minutes  more  they  were  standing  out  to  sea,  with 
their  dread  freight  of  horror  and  crime.  They  had  put  the 
body  to  lie  by  the  hatchways,  and  again  and  again  they  turned 
their  heads  towards  it  in  the  darkness.     It  was  as  though  it 

164 


ALONE,  ALONE— ALL,  ALL  ALONE 

might  even  yet  stand  up  in  their  midst,  and  any  man  at  any 
moment  might  find  it  face  to  face  with  him,  eye  to  eye. 

The  wind  was  fresh  outside.  It  was  on  their  larboard  qu  ir- 
ter  as  they  made  in  long  tacks  for  the  north.  When  they  were 
well  away  the  men  gathered  about  the  cockpit  and  began 
to  mourn  over  Ewan,  and  to  recount  their  memories  concern- 
ing him. 

"  Well,  the  young  pazon's  cruise  is  up,  and  a  rael  good  man 
any^vay." 

"Aw,  yes ;  there's  odds  of  pazons,but  the  like  of  him  isn't  in." 

"  Poor  Pazon  Ewan,"  said  Quilleash,  "  I  remember  him  since 
he  was  a  wee  skute  in  his  mother's  arms — and  a  fine  lady  too. 
And  him  that  quiet,  but  thinkin'  a  dale  maybe,  with  his  head 
a  piece  to  starboard  and  his  eyes  fixed  like  a  figurehead,  but 
more  natheral,  and  tender  uncommon.  And  game  too.  Aw, 
dear,  you  should  'a  seen  him  buck  up  to  young  Dan  at  whiles." 

"  Game  !  A  hot  temper  at  him  for  all,  and  I  wouldn't  trust 
but  it's  been  the  death  of  him." 

''Well,  man,  lave  it  at  that;  lave  it,  man.  Which  of  us 
doesn't  lie  over  in  a  bit  of  a  breeze  aither  to  port  or  starboard  } 
God  won't  be  hard  on  him  for  the  temper.  No,  no,  God'll  never 
be  hard  on  a  warm  heart  because  it  keeps  company  with  a  hot 
head." 

"  Aw,  but  the  tender  he  was  ! "  said  Crennell,  the  Quaker. 
"  And  the  voice  like  an  urgan  when  it's  like  a  flute,  soft  and 
low,  and  all  a-tremblin' !  D'ye  mind  the  day  ould  Betty  Kelly 
lost  her  little  gel  by  the  faver,  the  one  with  the  slander  little 
stalk  of  a  body,  and  the  head  like  a  flower,  and  the  eyes  like  a 
pair  of  bumbees  playing  in  it }  You  mind  her,  the  millish  } 
Well,  young  Pazon  Ewan  up  and  went  to  Balligbeg  immadi- 
ently,  and  ould  Betty  scraming  and  crying  morthal,  and  she'd 
die  !  so  she  would,  and  what  for  should  you  live  ?  but  och,  boy, 
the  way  the  pazon  put  out  the  talk  at  him,  and  the  bit  of  a 
spell  at  the  prayin' — aw,  man  alive,  he  caulked  the  seams  of 
the  ould  body  wonderful." 

"The  man  was  free,  as  free  as  free,"  said  old  Quilleash. 
"  When  he  grew  up  it  was,  '  How  are  you,  Billy  Quilleash  }  * 
And  when  he  came  straight  from  the  college  at  Bishop's  Court, 
and  all  the  laming  at  him,  and  the  fine  English  tongue,  and 
all  to  that,  it  was,  'And  how  are  you  to-day,  Billy.?'  'I'm 
middlin'  to-day,  Mastha  Ewan.'  Aw,  yes,  yes,  though,  a  tender 
heart  at  him  anyway,  and  no  pride  at  all  at  all." 

165 


THE  DEEMSTER 

The  old  man's  memories  were  not  thrilling  to  relate,  but  they 
brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes,  and  he  wiped  them  away  with  his 
sleeve. 

"  Still  a  quick  temper  for  all,  and  when  his  blood  was  up  it 
was  batten  down  your  hatches,  my  boys — a  storm's  coming," 
said  Ned  Teare. 

All  at  once  they  turned  their  faces  in  the  darkness  to  where 
Dan  sat  on  the  battened  hatches,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 
head  on  his  hands,  and  a  sort  of  shame  took  hold  of  them  at 
all  this  praise  of  Ewan.  It  was  as  if  every  word  must  enter 
into  Dan's  soul  like  iron.  Then,  hardly  knowing  what  they 
did,  they  began  to  beat  about  to  undo  the  mischief.  They 
talked  of  the  Deemster  in  his  relation  to  his  son. 

^'  Deed  on  Ewan — there  was  not  much  truck  atween  them — 
the  Deemster  and  him.  It  wasn't  natheral.  It  was  like  as  it 
a  sarpent  crawled  in  his  ould  sowl,  the  craythur,  and  spat  out 
at  the  young  pazon." 

Then  they  talked  of  Jarvis  Kerruish. 

"  Och,  schemin'  and  plannin'  reg'lar,  and  stirrin'  and  stirrin* 
and  stirrin'  at  the  divil's  own  gruel." 

"Aw,  the  Deemster's  made  many  a  man  toe  the  mark,  but 
I'm  thinkin'  he'll  have  to  stand  to  it  when  the  big  day  comes. 
I'll  go  bail  the  ould  polecat's  got  summat  to  answer  for  in  this 
consarn." 

Dan  said  nothing.  Alone,  and  giving  no  sign,  he  still  sat 
on  the  hatches  near  where  the  body  lay,  and,  a  little  to  aft  of 
him,  Davy  Fayle  was  stretched  out  on  the  deck.  The  lad's 
head  rested  on  one  hand,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  dog's 
yearning  look  on  the  dark  outlines  of  Dan's  figure. 

They  were  doubling  the  Point  of  Ayr  when  suddenly  the 
wind  fell  to  a  dead  calm.  The  darkness  seemed  to  grow  almost 
palpable. 

"  More  snow  comin' — let  the  boat  drifF,"  said  old  Billy  Quil- 
leash ;  and  the  men  turned  into  the  cabin,  only  Dan  and  tlie 
body,  with  Davy,  the  lad,  remaining  on  deck. 

Then,  through  the  silence  and  the  blank  darkness,  there  was 
the  sound  of  large  drops  of  rain  falling  on  the  deck.  Presently 
there  came  a  torrent  which  lasted  about  ten  minutes.  When 
the  rain  ceased  the  darkness  lifted  away,  and  the  stars  came 
out.  This  was  towards  two  o'clock,  and  soon  afterwards  the 
moon  rose,  but  before  long  it  was  concealed  again  by  a  dense 
black  turret  cloud  that  reared  itself  upwards  from  the  horizon. 

166 


ALONE,  ALONE— ALL,  ALL  ALONE 

Wlien  Dan  stepped  aboard,  a  dull,  dense  aching  at  his  heart 
was  all  the  consciousness  he  had.  The  world  was  dead  to  him. 
He  had  then  no  clear  purpose  of  concealing  his  crime,  and  none 
of  carrying  out  the  atonement  that  Mona  had  urged  him  to 
attempt.  He  was  stunned.  His  spirit  seemed  to  be  dead.  It 
was  as  though  it  could  awake  to  life  again  only  in  another  world. 
He  had  watched  old  Billy  when  he  whispered  into  Ewan's  deaf 
ear  the  words  of  the  mystic  charm.  Without  Avill  or  intention 
he  had  followed  the  men  when  they  came  to  the  boat.  Later 
on  a  fluttering  within  him  preceded  the  return  of  the  agonising 
sense.  Had  he  not  damned  his  own  soul  for  ever  }  That  he 
had  taken  a  warm  human  life  ;  that  Ewan,  who  had  been  alive, 
lay  dead  a  few  feet  away  from  him — this  was  nothing  to  the 
horrible  thought  that  he  himself  was  going,  hot  and  unprepared, 
to  an  everlasting  hell.  "  Oh,  can  this  thing  have  happened  ?  " 
his  bewildered  mind  asked  itself  a  thousand  times  as  it  awoke 
as  often  from  the  half-dream  of  a  paralysed  consciousness. 
Yes,  it  was  true  that  such  a  thing  had  occurred.  No,  it  was 
not  a  nightmare.  He  would  never  awake  in  the  morning 
sunlight,  and  smile  to  know  that  it  was  not  true.  No,  no ; 
true,  true,  true  it  was,  even  until  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and  he 
and  Ewan  stood  once  more  face  to  face,  and  the  awful  voice 
would  cry  aloud,  "  Go,  get  thee  hence." 

Then  Dan  thought  of  Mona,  and  his  heart  was  nigh  to  break- 
ing. With  a  dumb  long  in  his  eyes  turned  through  the  dark- 
ness towards  the  land,  and  while  the  boat  was  sailing  before  the 
wind  it  seemed  to  be  carrying  him  away  from  Mona  for  ever. 
The  water  that  lay  between  them  was  as  the  river  that  for  all 
eternity  would  divide  the  blessed  and  the  damned. 

And  while  behind  him  the  men  talked,  and  their  voices  fell 
on  his  ear  like  a  dull  buzz,  the  last  ray  of  his  hope  was  flying 
away,  When  Mona  had  prompted  him  to  the  idea  of  atone- 
ment, it  had  come  to  him  like  a  gleam  of  sunlight  that,  though 
he  might  never,  never  clasp  her  hands  on  earth,  in  heaven  she 
would  yet  be  his,  to  love  for  ever  and  ever.  But  no,  no,  no ; 
between  them  now  the  great  gulf  was  fixed. 

Much  of  this  time  Dan  lay  on  the  deck  with  only  the  dead 
and  the  lad  Davy  for  company,  and  the  fishing-boat  lay  motion- 
less with  only  the  lap  of  the  waters  about  her.  The  stars  died 
off,  the  darkness  came  again,  and  then,  deep  in  the  night,  the 
first  grey  streaks  stretching  along  the  east  foretold  the  dawn. 
Over  the  confines  of  another  night  the  soft  daylight  was  about 

167 


THE   DEEMSTER 

to  break,  but  more  utterly  lonely,  more  void  to  Dan  was  the 
great  waste  of  waters  now  that  the  striding  light  was  chasing 
the  curling  mists  than  when  the  darkness  lay  dead  upon  it.  On 
one  side  no  object  was  visible  on  the  waters  until  sky  and  ocean 
met  in  that  great  half-circle  far  away.  On  the  other  side  was 
the  land  that  was  once  called  home. 

When  the  grey  light  came,  and  the  darkness  ebbed  away, 
Dan  still  sat  on  the  hatches,  haggard  and  pale.  Davy  lay  on 
th  e  deck  a  pace  or  two  aside.  A  gentle  breeze  was  rising  in  the 
south-west.  The  boat  had  drifted  many  miles,  and  was  now 
almost  due  west  off  Peeltown,  and  some  five  miles  out  to  sea. 
The  men  came  up  from  below.  The  cold  white  face  by  the 
hatchway  looked  up  at  them,  and  at  heaven. 

*^' We  must  put  it  away  now,"  said  Billy  Quilleash. 

"  Ay,  it's  past  the  turn  of  the  ebb,"  said  Crennell. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  A  man  went  below  and 
brought  up  an  old  sail,  and  two  heavy  iron  weights,  used  for 
holding  down  the  nets,  were  also  fetched  from  the  hold.  Tliere 
was  no  singing  out,  no  talking.  Silently  they  took  up  what  lay 
there  cold  and  stiff,  and  wrapped  it  in  the  canvas,  putting  one  of 
the  weights  at  the  head  and  another  at  the  feet.  Then  one  of 
the  men — it  was  old  Billy  himself,  because  he  had  been  a  rigger 
in  his  young  days — sat  down  with  a  sailmaker's  needle  and 
string,  and  began  to  stitch  up  the  body  in  the  sail. 

'*  Will  the  string  hold  }  "  asked  one. 

"  It  will  last  him  this  voyage  out — it's  a  short  one,"  said  old 
Billy. 

Awe  and  silence  sat  on  the  crew.  When  all  was  made 
ready,  the  men  brought  from  below  a  bank-board  used  for 
shooting  the  nets.  They  lifted  the  body  on  to  it,  and  then 
with  the  scudding-pole  they  raised  one  end  of  the  board  on 
to  the  gunwale.  It  was  a  solemn  and  awful  sight.  Overhead 
the  heavy  clouds  of  night  were  still  rolling  before  the  dawn. 

Dan  sat  on  the  hatches  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his 
haggard  face  towards  the  deck.  None  spoke  to  him.  A  kind  of 
awe  had  fallen  on  the  men  in  their  dealings  with  him.  They 
left  him  alone.  Davy  Fayle  had  got  up,  and  was  leaning  against 
the  mitch-board.  All  hands  else  gathered  round  the  bank- board 
and  lifted  their  caps.  Then  old  Quilleash  went  down  on  one 
knee  and  laid  his  right  hand  on  the  body,  wliile  two  men  raised 
the  other  end  of  the  board.  "  Thf  bisheejeeah  shin — God  prosper 
you,"  murmured  the  old  fisherman. 

168 


ALONE,  ALONE— ALL.  ALL  ALONE 

"  God  prosper  you/'  echoed  the  others,  and  the  body  of  Ewan 
slid  down  into  the  wide  waste  of  waters. 

And  then  there  occurred  one  of  those  awful  incidents  which 
mariners  say  have  been  known  only  thrice  in  all  the  strange 
history  of  the  sea.  Scarcely  had  the  water  covered  up  the  body 
when  there  was  a  low  rumble  under  the  wave  circles  in  which  it 
had  disappeared.  It  was  the  noise  of  the  iron  weights  slipping 
from  their  places  at  the  foot  and  at  the  head.  The  stitching  was 
giving  way,  and  the  weights  were  tearing  open  the  canvas  in 
which  the  body  was  wrapped.  In  another  minute  these  weights 
had  rolled  out  of  the  canvas  and  sunk  into  the  sea.  Then  a 
terrible  thing  happened.  The  body,  free  of  the  weights  that 
were  to  sink  it,  rose  to  the  surface.  The  torn  canvas,  not  yet 
thoroughly  saturated,  opened  out,  and  spread  like  a  sail  in  the 
breeze  that  had  risen  again.  The  tide  was  not  yet  strong,  for 
the  ebb  had  only  just  begun,  and  the  body,  floating  on  the  top  of 
the  water  like  a  boat,  began  to  drive  athwart  the  hawse  of  the 
fishing-boat  straight  for  the  land.  Nor  was  the  marvel  ended 
yet.  Almost  instantly  a  great  luminous  line  arose  and  stretched 
from  the  boat's  quarter  towards  the  island,  white  as  a  moon's 
water-ray,  but  with  no  moon  to  make  it.  Flashing  along  the 
sea's  surface  for  several  seconds,  it  seemed  to  be  the  finger  of 
God  marking  the  body's  path  on  the  waters.  Old  mariners,  who 
can  interpret  aright  the  signs  of  sea  and  sky,  will  understand 
this  phenomenon  if  they  have  marked  closely  what  has  been 
said  of  the  varying  weather  of  this  fearful  night. 

To  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my-Chree  all  that  had  happened 
bore  but  one  awful  explanation.  The  men  stood  and  stared  into 
each  other's  faces  in  speechless  dismay.  They  strained  their 
eyes  to  watch  the  body  until — the  strange  light  being  gone — it 
became  a  speck  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  and  could  be  seen 
no  more.  It  was  as  though  an  avenging  angel  had  torn  the 
murdered  man  from  their  grasp.  But  the  worst  thought  was 
behind,  and  it  was  this  :  the  body  of  Ewan  Mylrea  would  wash 
ashore,  the  murder  would  become  known,  and  they  themselves, 
who  had  thought  only  to  hide  the  crime  of  Dan  Mylrea,  would 
now  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  become  participators  in  that  crime  or 
accessories  to  it. 

Dan  saw  it  all,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  another  man.     He 

read  that  incident  by  another  light.     It  was  God's  sign  to  the 

guilty  man,  saying,  "  Blood  will  have  blood."     The  body  would 

not  be  buried ;  the  crime  would  not  be  hidden.     The  penalty 

12  169 


THE   DEEMSTER 

must  be  paid.     Then  in  an  instant  Dan  thrust  behind  him  all^ 
Ills  vague  fears  and  all  his  paralysing  terrors.     Atonement ! 
atonement !  atonement  !     God  Himself  demanded  it,     Dan 
leapt  to  his  feet  and  cried,  "  Come,  my  lads,  we  must  go  back ; 
heave  hearty  and  away." 

It  was  the  first  time  Dan  had  spoken  that  night,  and  his 
voice  was  awful  in  the  men's  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA 

The  wind  strengthened,  and  the  men  hoisted  sail  and  began 
to  beat  in  to  the  island.  The  breeze  filled  the  canvas,  and 
for  half  an  hour  the  jib  lay  over  the  side,  while  the  fishing- 
boat  scudded  along  like  a  startled  bird.  The  sun  rose  over 
the  land,  a  thin  gauze  obscuring  it.  The  red  light  flashed  and 
died  away  and  fanned  the  air  as  if  the  wind  itself  were  the 
sunshine.  The  men's  haggard  faces  caught  at  moments  a  lurid 
glow  from  it.  In  the  west  a  mass  of  bluish  cloud  rested  a  little 
while  on  the  horizon,  and  then  passed  into  a  nimbus  of  grey 
rain-cloud  that  floated  above  it.  Such  was  the  dawn  and 
sunrise  of  a  fateful  day. 

Dan  stood  at  the  helm.  When  the  speck  that  had  glided 
along  the  waters  like  a  spectre  boat  could  be  no  more  seen, 
he  gazed  in  silence  towards  the  eastern  light  and  the  green 
shores  of  morning.  Then  he  had  a  sweet  half-hour's  blessed 
respite  from  terrible  thoughts.  He  saw  calmly  what  he  had 
done,  and  in  what  a  temper  of  blind  passion  he  had  done  it. 
"  Surely,  God  is  merciful,"  he  thought,  and  his  mind  turned 
to  Mona.  It  relieved  him  to  think  of  her.  She  intertwined 
herself  with  his  yearning  hope  of  pardon  and  peace.  She  be- 
came part  of  his  scheme  of  penitence.  His  love  for  her  was 
to  redeem  him  in  the  Father's  eye. 

The  crew  had  now  recovered  from  their  first  consternation, 
and  were  no  longer  obeying  Dan's  orders  mechanically.  They 
had  come  aboard  with  no  clear  purpose  before  them,  except 
that  of  saving  their  friend ;  but  nature  is  nature,  and  a  pitiful 
thing  at  the  best,  and  now  every  man  began  to  be  mainly 
concerned  about  saving  himself.     One  after  one  they  slunk 

170 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA 

away  forward  and  sat  on  the  thwart,  and  there  they  took 
counsel  together.  The  wind  was  full  on  their  starboard  beam, 
the  mainsail  and  yawl  were  bellied  out,  and  the  boat  was 
driving  straight  for  home.  But  through  the  men's  half  be- 
wildered heads  there  ran  like  a  cold  blast  of  wind  the  thought 
that  home  could  be  home  no  longer.  The  voices  of  girls,  the 
prattle  of  children,  the  welcome  of  wife,  the  glowing  hearth — 
these  could  be  theirs  no  more.  Davy  Fayle  stayed  aft  with 
Dan,  but  the  men  fetched  him  forward  and  began  to  question 
him. 

"  'Tarprit  all  this  mysterious  trouble  to  us,"  they  said. 

Davy  held  down  his  head  and  made  no  answer. 

"  You  were  with  him — what's  it  he's  afther  doin*  ?  " 

Still  no  answer  from  the  lad. 

"Out  with  it,  you  cursed  young  imp,"  said  old  Billy. 
"Damn  his  fool's  face,  why  doesn't  he  spake  ?" 

"  It's  the  mastha's  saycret,  and  I  wunnit  tell  it,"  said  Davy. 

"  You  wunnit,  you  idiot  waistrel }  " 

"  No,  I  wunnit,"  said  Davy  stoutly. 

"Look  here,  ye  beachcomber,  snappin'  yer  fingers  at  your 
old  uncle  that's  afther  bringin'  you  up,  you  pauper — what  was 
it  goin'  doin'  in  the  shed  yander  }  " 

"  It's  his  saycret,"  repeated  Davy. 

Old  Billy  took  Davy  by  the  neck  as  if  he  had  been  a  sack 
with  an  open  mouth,  and  brought  down  his  other  hand  with 
a  heavy  slap  on  the  lad's  shoulder. 

"  Gerr  out,  you  young  devil,"  he  said. 

Davy  took  the  blow  quietly,  but  he  stirred  not  an  inch,  and 
he  turned  on  his  uncle  with  great  wide  eyes. 

"  Gerr  out,  scollop  eyes  ; "  and  old  Billy  lifted  his  hand  again. 

"  Aisy,  aisy,"  said  Crennell,  interposing ;  and  then,  while 
Davy  went  back  aft,  the  men  compared  notes  again. 

"It's  plain  to  see,"  said  Ned  Teare,  "it's  been  a  quarrel, 
and  maybe  a  fight,  and  he's  had  a  piece  more  than  the  better, 
as  is  only  natheral,  and  him  a  big  strapping  chap  as  strong  as 
a  black  ox  and  as  sthraight  as  the  backbone  of  a  herring,  and 
he's  been  in  hidlins,  and  now  he's  afther  takin'  a  second 
thought,  and  goin'  back  and  chance  it." 

This  reading  of  the  mystery  commended  itself  to  all. 

"  It's  aisy  for  him  to  lay  high  like  that,"  said  Ned  again. 
"  If  I  was  the  old  Bishop's  son  I'd  hould  my  luff  too,  and  no 
hidlins  neither.     But  we've  got  ourselves  in  for  it,  so  we  have, 

171 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  we're  the  common  sort,  so  we  are,  and  there's  never  no 
sailin'  close  to  the  wind  for  the  like  of  us." 

And  to  this  view  of  the  situation  there  were  many  gruff 
assents.  They  had  come  out  to  sea  innocently  enough  and 
by  a  kindly  impulse,  but  they  had  thereby  cast  in  their  lot 
with  the  guilty  man ;  and  the  guilty  man  had  favour  in  high 
places,  but  they  had  none.  Then  their  tousled  heads  went 
together  again. 

"  What  for  shouldn't  we  lay  high,  too  } "  whispered  one  ; 
which,  with  other  whispers,  was  as  much  as  to  say,  why  should 
they  not  take  the  high  hand  and  mutiny,  and  put  Dan  into 
irons,  and  turn  the  boat's  head  and  stand  out  to  sea  }  Then 
it  would  be  anywhere,  anywhere,  away  from  the  crime  of  one, 
and  the  guilt  of  all. 

"  Hould  hard,"  said  old  Billy  Quilleash,  "  I'll  spake  to  him- 
self" 

Dan,  at  the  tiller,  had  seen  when  the  men  went  forward, 
and  he  had  also  seen  when  some  of  them  cast  sidelong  looks 
over  their  shoulders  in  his  direction.  He  knew — he  thought 
he  knew — the  thought  wherewith  their  brave  hearts  were  busy. 
They  were  thinking — so  thought  Dan — that  if  he  meant  to 
throw  himself  away  they  must  prevent  him.  But  they  should 
see  that  he  could  make  atonement.  Atonement.?  Empty 
solace,  pitiful  unction  for  a  soul  in  its  abasement,  but  all  that 
remained  to  him — all,  all. 

Old  Quilleash  went  aft,  sidled  up  to  the  helm,  and  began 
to  speak  in  a  stammering  way,  splicing  a  bit  of  rope  while  he 
spoke,  and  never  lifting  his  eyes  to  Dan's  face. 

"  What  for  shouldn't  we  gerr  away  to  Shetlands  }  "  he  said. 

"  Why  to  Shetlands  }  "  asked  Dan. 

"  Aw,  it's  safe  and  well  we'll  be  when  we're  there.  Aw,  yes, 
I've  been  there  afore  to-day.  They're  all  poor  men  there,  but 
right  kind ;  and  what's  it  sayin',  '  When  one  poor  man  helps 
another  poor  man,  God  laughs.' " 

Dan  thought  he  saw  into  the  heart  of  the  old  fellow.  His 
throat  grew  hard  and  his  eyes  dim,  and  he  twisted  his  face 
away,  keeping  one  hand  on  the  tiller.  They  should  yet 
be  justified  of  their  loyalty,  these  stout  sea-dogs — yes,  God 
helping  him. 

"No,  no,  Billy,"  he  said,  "there's  to  be  no  running  away. 
We're  going  back  to  see  it  out." 

At  that  old  Quilleash  threw  off  some  of  his  reserve. 

172 


ALONE   ON  A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA 

"Mastha  Dan/'  he  said,  "we  came  out  to  sea  just  to  help 
you  out  of  this  jeel,  and  because  we've  shared  work,  shared 
meat  with  you,  and  a  frien'  should  stand  to  a  frien' ;  but  now 
we're  in  for  it  too,  so  we  are,  and  what  you'll  have  to  stand  to 
we'll  have  to  stand  to,  and  it'll  be  unknownst  to  the  law  as  we 
are  innocent  as  kittens ;  and  so  it's  every  man  for  himself  and 
God  for  U3  all." 

Then  Dan  understood  them — how  had  he  been  blind  so  long 
to  their  position  ? 

''You  want  me  to  put  about ;  is  that  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

Old  Quilleash  nodded  his  head,  still  keeping  his  eyes  down. 

''  You  think  you'll  be  taken  with  me  ?  " 

Old  Quilleash  made  an  abashed  mutter  of  assent.  "  Aw, 
yes,  as  'cessories  before  the  fac's,"  he  added. 

At  that  Dan's  great  purpose  began  to  waver. 

"Don't  fear,  Billy,"  he  said;  "I'll  speak  up  for  you." 

"And  what'll  that  go  for?  Nothm'.  Haven't  we  been 
tryin'  to  put  it  away  ?  " 

"That's  true." 

It  was  a  fearful  situation.  The  cold  sweat  rose  in  big  beads 
on  Dan's  forehead.  What  had  he  done .''  He  had  allowed 
these  brave  fellows  to  cast  in  their  lot  with  him.  They  were 
with  him  now  for  good  or  ill.  He  might  say  they  were  innocent, 
but  what  would  his  word  avail  ?  And  he  had  no  proof.  They 
had  tried  to  cover  up  his  crime  ;  they  could  not  cover  it ;  God 
had  willed  that  the  crime  should  not  be  hidden.  And  now, 
if  he  wished  to  lose  his  life  to  save  his  soul,  what  right  had  he 
to  take  the  lives  of  these  men  also  ?  The  brave  fellows  had 
wives  that  waited  for  them,  and  children  that  claimed  their 
knees.  Atonement }  Empty  heroics,  to  be  bought  at  the 
price  of  the  blood  of  five  loyal  fellows  whose  only  crime  was 
that  they  had  followed  him.  He  had  dressed  himself  in  a 
proud  armour  of  self-sacrifice,  but  a  righteous  God,  that  sees 
into  the  heart  of  man  and  hates  pride  and  brings  it  to  the  dust, 
had  stripped  him  naked. 

Dan's  soul  was  in  a  turmoil.  What  should  he  do  ?  On  the 
one  hand  were  love,  honour,  Mona,  even  everlasting  life,  and 
on  the  other  were  five  innocent  men.  The  agony  of  that 
moment  was  terrible.  Atonement  }  God  must  have  set  His 
face  against  it. 

Dan's  hand  rested  on  the  tiller,  but  there  was  no  strength 
in  his  arm,  because  there  was  now  no  resolve  in  his  heart. 

173 


THE  DEEMSTER 

The  fishing-boat  was  about  three  miles  west  of  Jurby  Point, 
going  well  before  the  wind.  In  half  an  hour  more  it  would 
run  into  the  creek.  It  was  now  to  act  or  never.  What  was 
he  to  do  ?     What  ?     What } 

It  was  then,  in  that  moment  of  awful  doubt,  when  the  will 
of  a  strong  man  might  have  shrivelled  up,  that  nature  herself 
seemed  to  give  the  answer. 

All  at  once  the  wind  fell  again  to  a  dead  calm.  Then  Dan 
knew,  or  seemed  to  know,  that  God  was  with  the  men,  and 
against  him.  There  was  to  be  no  atonement.  No,  there  was 
to  be  no  proud  self-sacrifice. 

Dan's  listless  hand  dropped  from  the  tiller,  and  he  flung 
himself  down  in  his  old  seat  by  the  hatches.  The  men  looked 
into  each  other's  faces  and  smiled  a  grisly  smile.  The  sails 
flapped  idly  ;  the  men  furled  them,  and  the  boat  drifted  south. 

The  set  of  the  tide  was  still  to  ebb,  and  every  boat's  length 
south  took  the  boat  a  fathom  farther  out  to  sea.  This  was 
what  the  men  wanted,  and  they  gathered  in  the  cockpit,  and 
gave  way  to  more  cheerful  spirits. 

Dan  lay  by  the  hatches,  helpless  and  hopeless,  and  more 
haggard  and  pale  than  before.  An  unearthly  light  now  fired 
his  eyes,  and  that  was  the  first  word  of  a  fearful  tale.  A  witch's 
Sabbath,  a  devil's  revelry,  had  begun  in  his  distracted  brain. 
It  was  as  though  he  were  already  a  being  of  another  world. 
In  a  state  of  wild  hallucination  he  saw  his  own  spectre,  and  he 
was  dead.  He  lay  on  the  deck ;  he  was  cold ;  his  face  was 
white,  and  it  stared  straight  up  at  the  sky.  The  crew  were 
busy  about  him ;  they  were  bringing  up  the  canvas  and  the 
weights.  He  knew  what  they  were  going  to  do ;  they  were 
going  to  bury  him  in  the  sea. 

Then  a  film  overspread  his  sight,  and  when  he  awoke  he 
knew  that  he  had  slept.  He  had  seen  his  father  and  Mona  in 
a  dream.  His  father  was  very  old ;  the  white  head  was  bent, 
and  the  calm,  saintly  gaze  was  fixed  upon  him.  There  was  a 
happy  thought  in  Mona's  face.  Everj'thing  around  her  spoke 
of  peace.  The  dream  was  fresh,  and  sweet,  and  peaceful  to  Dan 
when  he  woke  where  he  lay  on  the  deck.  It  was  like  the 
sunsliine,  and  the  carolling  of  birds,  and  the  smell  of  new-cut 
grass.  Was  there  no  dew  in  heaven  for  parched  lips,  no  balm 
for  the  soul  of  a  man  accursed  ? 

Hours  went  by.  The  day  wore  on.  A  passing  breath  some- 
times stirred  the  waters,  and  again  all  was  dumb,  dead,  pulseless 

174 


ALONE   ON  A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA 

peace.  Hearing  only  the  faint  flap  of  the  rippling  tide,  they 
drifted,  drifted,  drifted. 

Curious  and  very  touching  were  the  changes  that  came  over 
the  feelings  of  the  men.  They  had  rejoiced  when  the};  were 
first  becalmed,  but  now  another  sense  was  uppermost.  The  day 
was  cold  to  starvation.  Death  was  before  them — slow,  sure, 
relentless  death.  There  could  be  no  jugglery.  Then  let  it  be 
death  at  home  rather  than  death  on  this  desert  sea  !  Anything, 
anything  but  this  blind  end,  this  dumb  end,  this  dying  bit  by  bit 
on  still  waters.  To  see  the  darkness  come  again,  and  the  sun 
rise  afresh,  and  once  more  the  sun  sink  and  the  darkness 
deepen,  and  still  to  lie  there  with  nothing  around  but  the 
changeless  sea,  and  nothing  above  but  the  empty  sky,  and  only 
the  eye  of  God  upon  them,  while  the  winds  and  the  waters  lay 
in  His  avenging  hands — let  it  rather  be  death,  swift  death, 
just  or  unjust. 

Thus  despair  took  hold  of  them,  and  drove  away  all  fear, 
and  where  there  is  no  fear  there  is  no  grace. 

"  Share  yn  oik  shione  dooin  na  yn  oik  nagh  nhione  dooin,"  said 
old  Billy,  and  that  was  the  old  Manx  proverb  that  says  that 
better  is  the  evil  we  know  than  the  evil  we  do  not  know. 

And  with  such  shifts  they  deceived  themselves,  and  changed 
their  poor  purposes,  and  comforted  their  torn  hearts. 

The  cold,  thick,  winter  day  was  worn  far  towards  sunset, 
and  still  not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring.  Gilded  by  the 
sun's  hazy  rays,  the  waters  to  the  west  made  a  floor  of  bleared 
red.  The  fishing-boat  had  drifted  nearly  ten  miles  to  the  south. 
If  she  should  drift  two  miles  more  she  must  float  into  the  south- 
eastern current  that  flows  under  Contrary  Head.  At  the 
thought  of  that,  and  the  bare  chance  of  drifting  into  Peeltown 
Harbour,  a  little  of  the  vagiie  sense  of  the  hopelessness  seemed 
to  lift  away.  The  men  glanced  across  at  Dan,  and  one  mur- 
mured, "  Let  every  herring  hang  by  its  own  gill ;  '  and  an- 
other muttered,  '^Everyman  to  the  mill  with  his  own  sack." 

Davy  Fayle  lay  on  the  deck  a  few  paces  from  Dan.  The 
simple  lad  tried  to  recall  the  good  words  that  he  had  heard  in 
the  course  of  his  poor,  neglected,  battered  life.  One  after  one 
they  came  back  to  him,  most  of  them  from  some  far-away 
dreamland,  strangely  brightwith  the  vision  of  a  face  that  looked 
fondly  upon  him,  and  even  kissed  him  tenderly.  "Gentle 
Jesus,"  and,  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep" — he  could  re- 
member them  both  pretty  well,  and  their  simple  words  went 

175 


THE   DEEMSTER 

up  with  the  supplicatory  ardour  of  his  great-grown  heart  to 
the  sky  on  which  his  eyes  were  bent. 

The  men  lounged  about  and  were  half  frozen.  No  one  cared 
to  go  below.  None  thought  of  a  fire.  Silence  and  death  were 
in  their  midst.  Once  again  their  hearts  turned  to  home,  and 
now  with  other  feelings.  They  could  see  the  island  through 
the  haze,  and  a  sprinkling  of  snow  dotted  its  purple  hills.  This 
brought  to  mind  the  bright  days  of  summer,  and  out  of  their 
hopelessness  they  talked  of  the  woods,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
flowers.  ''  D'ye  mind  my  ould  mother's  bit  of  a  place  up  the 
glen,"  said  Crennell,  "  an'  the  wee  croft  afore  it  swaying  and 
a-flowing  same  as  the  sea  in  the  softest  taste  of  a  south  breeze, 
and  the  red  ling  like  a  rod  of  goold  running  up  the  hedge,  and 
the  fuchsia  stretchin'  up  the  wall  of  the  loft,  and  dropping  its 
red  wrack  like  blood,  and  the  green  trammon  atop  of  the  porch 
— d'ye  mind  it }  "  And  the  men  said  "  Ay,"  and  brushed 
their  eyes  with  their  sleeves.  Each  hard  man,  with  despair 
seated  on  his  rugged  face,  longed,  like  a  sick  child,  to  lay  his 
head  in  the  lap  of  home. 

It  was  Christmas  Day.  Old  Quilleash  remembered  this,  and 
they  talked  of  Christmas  Days  gone  by,  and  what  happy  times 
they  had  been.  Billy  began  to  tell  a  humorous  story  of  the 
two  deaf  men,  Hommy-beg,  the  gardener,  and  Jemmy  Quirk, 
the  schoolmaster,  singing  against  each  other  at  Oiel  Verree ; 
and  the  old  fellow's  discoloured  teeth,  with  their  many  gaps 
between,  grinned  horribly  like  an  ape's  between  his  frozen  jaws 
when  he  laughed  so  hard.  But  this  was  too  tender  a  chord, 
and  soon  the  men  were  silent  once  more.  Then,  while  the 
waters  lay  cold  and  clear  and  still,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  in 
the  west,  there  came  floating  to  them  from  the  land,  through  the 
breathless  air,  the  sound  of  the  church  bells  ringing  at  home. 

It  was  the  last  drop  in  their  cup.  The  poor  fellows  could 
beai  up  no  longer.  More  than  one  dropped  his  head  to  liis 
knees  and  sobbed  aloud.  Then  old  Quilleash,  in  a  husky 
voice,  and  coarsely,  almost  swearing  as  he  spoke,  just  to  hide 
his  shame  in  a  way,  said,  spitting  from  his  quid,  "  Some  chap 
pray  a  spell."  "  Ay,  ay,"  said  another.  "  Aw,  yes,"  said  a 
third.  But  no  one  prayed.  "You,  Billy,"  said  Ned  Teare. 
Billy  shook  his  head.  The  old  man  had  never  known  a  })rayer. 
''  It  was  Pazon  Ewan  that  was  powerful  at  prayer,"  said  Cren- 
nell.    "You,  Crennell,"     Crennell  could  not  pray. 

All  lay  quiet  as  death  around  them,  and  only  the  faint  sound 

176 


"THERE'S   GOLD   ON  THE   CUSHAGS  YET" 

of  the  bells  was  borne  to  them  as  a  mellow  whisper.  Then, 
from  near  wliere  Dan  sat  by  the  hatches,  Davy  Fayle  rose 
silently  to  his  feet.  None  had  thought  of  him.  With  his  sad 
longing  in  his  big,  simple  eyes,  he  began  to  sing.  This  was 
what  he  sang : — 

Lo  !  He  comes  with  clouds  descending, 
Once  for  favoured  sinners  slain. 


The  lad's  voice,  laden  with  tears,  floated  away  over  the  great 
waters.  The  men  hung  their  heads,  and  were  mute.  The 
dried-up  well  of  Dan's  eyes  moistened  at  last,  and  down  his 
hard  face  ran  the  gHstening  tears  in  gracious  drops  hke  dew. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

"there's    gold    on    the    CUSHAGS    YET  " 

Then  there  came  a  breath  of  wind.  At  fii-st  it  was  soft  as  an 
angel's  whisper.  It  grew  stronger  and  ruffled  the  sea.  Every 
man  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his  mates.  Each  was 
struggling  with  a  painful  idea  that  perhaps  he  was  the  victim 
of  a  delusion  of  the  sense.  But  the  chill  breath  of  the  wind 
was  indeed  among  them. 

"  Isn't  it  beginning  to  puff  up  from  the  sou'-west  ?  "  asked 
Crennell  in  an  uncertain  whisper.  At  that  old  Quil leash 
jumped  to  his  feet.  The  idea  of  the  supernatural  had  gone 
from  him.  "  Now  for  the  sheets  and  to  make  sail,"  he  cried, 
and  spat  the  quid. 

One  after  one  the  men  got  up  and  bustled  about.  Their 
limbs  were  well-nigh  frozen  stiff.  All  was  stir  and  animation 
in  an  instant.  Pulling  at  the  ropes,  the  men  had  begun  to 
laugh,  yes,  with  their  husky,  grating,  tear-drowned  voices, 
even  to  laugh  through  their  grisly  beards.  A  gruesome  sense 
of  the  ludicrous  had  taken  hold  of  them.  It  was  the  swift 
reaction  from  solemn  thoughts.  When  the  boat  felt  her 
canvas  she  shook  herself  like  a  sea-bird  trying  her  wings, 
then  shot  off  at  full  flight. 

"  Bear  a  hand  there.      Lay  on,  man  alive.      Why,  you're 

177 


THE  DEEMSTER 

going  about  like  a  brewing-pan,  old  fellow.  Pull,  boy,  pulL 
What  are  your  arms  for,  eh  ?  "  Old  Quilleash's  eyes,  which 
had  been  dim  with  tears  a  moment  ago,  glistened  with  grisly 
mischief.  "Who  hasn't  heard  that  a  Manxman's  arms  are 
tiiree  legs.^"  he  said,  with  a  hungry  grin.  How  the  men 
laughed  !  What  humour  there  was  now  in  the  haggard  old 
saw ! 

"  Where  are  you  for,  Billy  ?  "  cried  Corkell. 

"  Peel,  boy.  Peel,  d it.  Peel,"  shouted  Quilleash. 

"  Hurroo  !     Bould  fellow  !     Ha,  ha,  he,  he  ! " 

"  Hurrro  !     There's  gold  on  the  cushags  yet." 

How  they  worked  !  In  two  minutes  the  mast  was  stepped, 
the  mainsail  and  mizzen  were  up,  and  they  filled  away  and 
stood  out.  From  the  shores  of  death  they  had  sailed  somehow 
into  the  waters  of  life,  and  hope  was  theirs  once  more. 

They  began  to  talk  of  what  had  caused  the  wind.  "  It  was 
the  blessed  St.  Patrick,"  said  Corkell.  St.  Patrick  was  the 
patron  saint  of  that  sea,  and  Corkell  was  more  than  half  a 
Catholic,  his  mother  being  a  fishwife  from  Kinsale. 

''St.   Patrick  be  ,"  cried  Ned  Teare,  with  a  scornful 

laugh ;  and  they  got  to  words,  and  at  length  almost  to  blows. 

Old  Quilleash  was  at  the  tiller.  "Drop  it,"  he  shouted; 
''we're  in  the  down  stream  for  Contrary,  and  we'll  be  in  harbour 
in  ten  minutes." 

"  God  A'mighty  !  it's  running  a  ten-knots  tide,"  said  Teare. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  they  were  sailing  under  the  castle 
islet  up  to  the  wooden  pier,  having  been  eighteen  hours  on 
the  water. 

Not  a  man  of  the  four  had  given  a  thought  to  Dan,  whether 
he  wished  to  go  back  to  the  island,  or  to  make  a  foreign  port 
where  his  name  and  his  crime  would  be  unknown.  Only  the 
lad  Davy  had  hung  about  him  where  he  sat  by  the  hatches. 
Dan's  pale  face  was  firm  and  resolute,  and  the  dream  of  a  smile 
was  on  his  hard-drawn  lips.  But  his  despair  had  grown  into 
courage,  and  he  knew  no  fear  at  all. 

The  sun  was  down,  the  darkness  was  gathering,  and  through 
the  day  mist  the  dew  fog  was  rising  as  the  fishing-boat  put  to 
under  the  lee  of  a  lantern  newly  lighted,  that  was  stuck  out 
from  the  end  of  the  pier  on  a  pole.  The  quay  was  almost 
deserted.  Only  the  old  harbour-master  was  there,  singing 
out,  as  by  duty  bound,  his  lusty  oaths  at  their  lumberings. 
Never  before  did  the  old  grumbler's  strident  voice  sound  so 

178 


"THERE'S   GOLD   ON  THE  CUSHAGS   YET" 

musical  as  now,  and  even  his  manifest  ill-temper  was  sweet 
to-night,  for  it  seemed  to  tell  the  men  that  thus  far  they  were 
not  suspected. 

The  men  went  their  way  together,  and  Dan  went  off  alone. 
He  took  the  straightest  course  home.  Seven  long  miles  over 
a  desolate  road  he  tramped  in  the  darkness,  and  never  a 
star  came  out,  and  the  moon,  which  was  in  its  last  quarter, 
struggling  behind  a  rack  of  cloud,  lightened  the  sky  some- 
times, but  did  not  appear.  As  he  passed  through  Michael  he 
noticed,  though  his  mind  was  preoccupied  and  his  perception 
obscure,  that  the  street  was  more  than  usually  silent,  and 
that  few  lights  burned  behind  the  window  blinds.  Even  the 
low  porch  of  the  "  Three  Legs  "  when  Dan  came  to  it  was 
deserted,  and  hardly  the  sound  of  a  voice  came  from  within 
the  little  pot-house.  Only  in  a  vague  way  did  these  impres- 
sions communicate  themselves  to  Dan's  stunned  intelligence 
as  he  plodded  along,  but  hardly  had  he  passed  out  of  the 
street  when  he  realised  the  cause  of  the  desolation.  A  great 
glow  came  from  a  spot  in  front  of  him,  as  of  many  lanterns 
and  torches  burning  together,  and  though  in  his  bewilderment 
he  had  not  noticed  it  before,  the  lights  lit  all  the  air  about 
them.  In  the  midst  of  these  lights  there  came  and  went  out 
of  the  darkness  the  figures  of  a  great  company  of  people, 
sometimes  bright  with  the  glare  on  their  faces,  sometimes 
black  with  the  deep  shadow  of  the  torchlight. 

Obscure  as  his  ideas  were,  Dan  comprehended  everything 
in  an  instant,  and,  chilled  as  he  was  to  the  heart's  core  by  the 
terrors  of  the  last  night  and  day,  his  very  bones  seemed  now 
to  grow  cold  within  him. 

It  was  a  funeral  by  torchlight,  and  these  maimed  rites 
were,  by  an  ancient  usage,  long  disused,  but  here  revived,  the 
only  burial  of  one  whose  death  had  been  doubtful,  or  whose 
body  had  washed  ashore  on  the  same  day. 

The  people  were  gathered  on  the  side  of  the  churchyard 
near  to  the  highroad,  between  the  road  and  the  church. 
Dan  crept  up  to  the  opposite  side,  leapt  the  low  cobble  wall, 
and  placed  himself  under  the  shadow  of  the  vestry  by  the 
chancel.  He  was  then  standing  beneath  the  window  he  had 
leapt  out  of  in  his  effort  to  escape  the  Bishop  on  that  Christ- 
mas Eve  long  ago  of  his  boyish  freak  at  the  Oiel  Venee. 

About  an  open  vault  three  or  four  mourners  were  standing, 
and,  a  little  apart  from  them,  a  smoking  and  flickering  torch 

179 


THE  DEEMSTER 

cast  its  light  on  their  faces.  There  was  the  Bishop,  with  his 
snowy  head  bare  and  deeply  bowed,  and  there  by  his  elbow 
was  Jarvis  Kerruish  in  his  cloak  and  beaver,  with  arms  folded 
under  his  chin.  And  walking  to  and  fro,  from  side  to  side, 
with  a  quick,  nervous  step,  breaking  out  into  alternate  shrill 
cries  and  harsh  commands  to  four  men  who  had  descended 
into  the  vault,  was  the  little  restless  figure  of  the  Deemster. 
Behind  these  and  about  them  was  the  close  company  of  the 
people,  with  the  light  coming  and  going  on  their  faces,  a 
deep  low  murmur,  as  of  many  whispers  together,  rising  out 
of  their  midst. 

Dan  shook  from  head  to  foot.  His  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still.  He  knew  on  what  business  the  mourners  were  met ; 
they  were  there  to  bury  Ewan.  He  felt  an  impulse  to  scream, 
and  then  another  impulse  to  turn  and  fly.  But  he  could  not 
uttei  the  least  cry,  and,  quivering  in  every  limb^  he  could  not 
stir.  Standing  there  in  silence,  he  clung  to  the  stone  wall 
with  trembling  fingers. 

The  body  had  been  lowered  to  its  last  home,  and  the  short 
obsequies  began.  The  service  for  the  dead  was  not  read,  but 
the  Bishop  stretched  out  his  hands  above  the  open  vault  and 
prayed.  Dan  heard  the  words,  but  it  was  as  if  he  heard  the 
voice  only.  They  beat  on  his  dazed,  closed  mind  as  a  sea- 
gull, blown  by  the  wind,  beats  against  a  window  on  a  stormy 
night.  While  the  Bishop  prayed  in  broken  accents,  the  deep 
thick  boom  of  the  sea  came  up  from  the  distant  shore  be- 
tween the  low-breathed  murmurs  of  the  people. 

Dan  dropped  to  his  knees,  breathless  and  trembling.  He 
tried  to  pray,  too,  but  no  prayer  would  come.  His  mind  was 
beaten,  and  his  soul  was  barren.  His  father's  faltering  voice 
ceased,  and  then  a  half-stifled  moan  burst  from  his  own  lips. 
In  the  silence  the  moan  seemed  to  fall  on  every  ear,  and  the 
quick  ear  of  the  Deemster  was  instantly  arrested.  "Who's 
that  ?  "  he  cried,  and  twisted  about. 

But  all  was  still  once  more,  and  then  the  people  began 
to  sing.  It  was  a  strange  sight  and  a  strange  sound  :  the 
torches,  the  hard  furrowed  faces  in  the  flickering  light,  the 
white-headed  Bishop,  the  restless  Deemster,  and  the  voices 
ringing  oat  in  the  night  over  the  open  grave.  And  from 
where  he  knelt  Dan  lifted  his  eyes,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
torches  he  saw  the  clock  in  the  church  tower;  the  hands  still 
stood  at  five. 

180 


A   RESURRECTION   INDEED 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  away.  His  step  fell  softly 
on  the  grass  of  the  churchyard.  At  one  instant  he  thought 
that  there  were  footsteps  behind  him.  He  stopped,  and 
stretched  his  arms  half-fearfully  towards  the  sound.  There 
was  nothing.  After  he  had  leapt  the  cobble  wall  he  was 
conscious  that  he  had  stopped  again,  and  was  listening  as 
though  to  learn  if  he  had  been  observed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A    RESURRECTION    INDEED 

And  now  a  strange  accident  befell  him — strange  enough  in 
itself,  mysterious  in  its  significance,  and  marvellous  as  one  of 
God's  own  miracles  in  its  results.  He  was  going  to  give 
himself  up  to  the  Deemster  at  Ballamona,  but  he  did  not  any 
longer  take  the  highroad  through  the  village,  for  he  shrank 
from  every  human  face.  Almost  without  consciousness  he 
followed  the  fenceless  cart-track  that  went  by  the  old  lead 
mine  known  as  the  Cross  Vein.  The  disused  shaft  had  never 
been  filled  up,  and  never  even  enclosed  by  a  rail.  It  had 
been  for  years  a  cause  of  anxiety,  which  nothing  but  its 
remoteness  on  the  lone  waste  of  the  headland  had  served  to 
modify.  And  now  Dan,  who  knew  every  foot  of  the  waste, 
and  was  the  last  man  to  whom  danger  from  such  an  occasion 
might  have  been  feared,  plodding  along  with  absent  mind  in 
the  darkness,  fell  down  the  open  shaft. 

The  shaft  was  forty-five  fathoms  deep,  yet  Dan  was  not  so 
much  as  hurt.  At  the  bottom  were  nearly  twenty-five  fathoms 
of  water,  the  constant  drainage  of  the  old  workings,  which 
rose  almost  to  the  surface,  or  dropped  to  a  great  depth,  accord- 
ing to  weather.  This  had  broken  his  fall.  On  coming  to  the 
surface,  one  stroke  in  the  first  instant  of  dazed  consciousness 
had  landed  him  on  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock  that  raked  down- 
ward from  the  seam.  But  what  was  his  position  when  he 
realised  it.f*  It  seemed  to  be  worse  than  death  itself;  it  was 
a  living  death  :  it  was  burial  in  an  open  grave. 

Hardly  had  he  recovered  his  senses  when  he  heard  some- 
thing stirring  overhead.  Were  they  footsteps,  those  thuds  on 
the  ear,  like  the  first  rumble  of  a  distant  thunder-cloud  }     In 

181 


THE  DEEMSTER 

the  agony  of  fear  he  tried  to  call,  but  his  tongue  clave  to  his 
mouth.  Then  there  was  some  talking  near  the  mouth  of  the 
shaft.  It  came  down  to  him  like  words  shouted  through  a 
black,  hollow,  upright  pillar. 

"  No  use,  men,"  said  one  speaker,  ''not  a  foot  farther  after 
the  best  man  alive.  It's  every  man  for  himself,  now,  and  I'll 
go  bail  it's  after  ourselves  they'll  be  going  next." 

And  then  another  voice,  laden  with  the  note  of  pain,  cried, 
"  But  they'll  take  him.  Uncle  Billy,  they'll  take  him,  and  him 
knowin'  nothin'." 

"  Drove  it,  drove  it !  Come  along,  man  alive.  Lave  the 
lad  to  this  d — d  blather — ^you'd  better.  Let's  make  a  slant 
for  it.     The  fac's  is  agen  us." 

Dan  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  human  voices.  Buried,  as 
he  was,  twenty  fathoms  beneath  the  surface,  the  voices  came 
to  him  like  the  voice  that  the  wind  might  make  on  a  tempes- 
tuous night  if,  as  it  reaches  your  ear,  it  whispered  words  and 
fled  away. 

The  men  had  gone.  Who  were  they  ?  What  had  hap- 
pened ?  Dan  asked  himself  if  he  had  not  remembered  one  of 
the  voices,  or  both.  His  mind  was  stunned  and  he  could  not 
think.  He  could  hardly  be  sure  that  in  very  truth  he  was 
conscious  of  what  occurred. 

Time  passed — he  knew  not  how  long  or  short — and  again 
he  heard  voices  overhead,  but  they  were  not  the  voices  that 
he  had  heard  before. 

"  I  apprehend  that  they  have  escaped  us.  But  they  were 
our  men  nevertheless.  I  have  had  advices  from  Peel  that 
the  boat  put  into  the  harbour  two  hours  ago." 

"  Mind  the  old  lead  shaft,  sir." 

Dan  was  conscious  that  a  footstep  approached  the  mouth 
of  the  shaft. 

"What  a  gulf!     Lucky  we  didn't  tumble  down." 

There  was  a  short  laugh — as  of  one  who  was  panting  after 
a  sharp  run — at  the  mouth  of  Dan's  open  grave. 

"  This  was  the  way  they  took,  sir ;  over  the  head  towards 
the  Curraghs.  They  were  not  half  wise,  or  they  would  have 
taken  the  mountains  for  it." 

"  They  do  not  know  that  we  are  in  pursuit  of  f//em.  Depend 
upon  it  they  are  following  him  up  to  warn  him.  After  all,  it  may 
have  been  his  voice  that  the  Deemster  heard  in  the  church- 
yard.   He  is  somewhere  within  arm's  reach.    Let  us  push  on." 

182 


A   RESURRECTION   INDEED 

The  voices  ceased,  the  footsteps  died  off.  Forty  feet  of 
dull,  dead  rock  and  earth  had  carried  the  sounds  away  in  an 
instant.  "  Stop  ! "  cried  Dan,  in  the  hurry  of  fear.  Despair 
made  him  brave ;  fear  made  him  fearless.  There  was  no 
response.  He  was  alone  once  more,  but  death  was  with  him. 
Then  in  the  first  moment  of  recovered  consciousness  he  knew 
whose  voice  it  was  that  he  had  heard  last,  and  he  thanked 
God  that  his  call  had  not  been  answered.  It  was  the  voice 
of  Jarvis  Kerruish.  In  agony  of  despair  Dan  perceived  that 
the  first  company  of  men  had  been  Quilleash  and  the  fisher- 
fellows.  What  fatality  had  prevented  him  from  crying  aloud 
to  the  only  persons  on  earth  who  could  have  rescued  and 
saved  him.^  Dan  realised  that  his  crime  was  known,  and 
that  he  was  now  a  hunted  man. 

It  was  then  that  he  knew  how  hopeless  was  his  plight.  He 
must  not  cry  for  help ;  he  must  stand  still  as  death  in  his 
deep  tomb.  To  be  lifted  out  of  this  pit  by  the  men  who  were 
in  search  of  him  would  be,  as  it  would  seem,  to  be  dragged 
from  his  hiding-place,  and  captured  in  a  feeble  effort  to 
escape.  What  then  of  his  brave  atonement.^  Who  would 
believe  that  he  meant  to  make  it  ?  It  would  be  a  mockery 
at  which  the  veriest  poltroon  might  laugh. 

Dan  saw  now  that  death  encircled  him  on  every  side.  To 
remain  in  the  pit  was  death ;  to  be  lifted  out  of  it  was  death 
no  less  surely ;  to  escape  was  hopeless.  But  not  so  soon  is 
hope  conquered  when  it  is  hope  of  life.  Cry  for  help  he 
must ;  be  dragged  out  of  this  grave  he  should,  let  the  issue 
be  what  it  could  or  would.  To  lie  there  and  die  was  not 
human.  To  live  was  the  first  duty,  the  first  necessity,  be  the 
price  of  life  no  less  than  future  death. 

Dan  looked  up  at  the  sky ;  it  was  a  small  square  patch  of 
leaden  grey  against  the  impenetrable  blackness  of  his  prison 
walls.  Standing  on  the  ledge  of  the  rock,  and  steadying  him- 
self with  one  hand,  he  lifted  the  other  cautiously  upward  to 
feel  the  sides  of  the  shaft.  They  were  of  rock,  and  were 
quite  precipitous,  but  had  rugged  projecting  pieces  on  which 
it  was  possible  to  lay  hold.  As  he  grasped  one  of  these,  a 
sickening  pang  of  hope  shot  through  him,  and  wounded  him 
worse  than  despair.  But  it  was  gone  in  an  instant.  The 
piece  of  rock  gave  way  in  his  hand,  and  tumbled  into  the 
water  below  him  with  a  hollow  splash.  The  sides  of  the 
shaft  were  of  crumbling  stone  ! 

183 


THE   DEEMSTER 

It  was  then,  in  that  blind  labouring  of  despair,  that  he 
asked  himself  why  he  should  struggle  with  this  last  of  the 
misfortunes  that  had  befallen  him.  Was  life  so  dear  to  him  ? 
Not  so,  or,  being  dear,  he  was  willing  to  lay  it  down.  Was 
he  not  about  to  deliver  himself  to  the  death  that  must  be  the 
first  punishment  of  his  crime  ?  And  what,  after  all,  was  there 
to  choose  between  two  forms  of  death  ?  Nay,  if  he  must  die, 
who  was  no  longer  worthy  of  life,  better  to  die  there,  none 
knowing  his  way  of  death,  than  to  die  on  the  gallows. 

At  that  thought  his  hair  rose  from  its  roots.  He  had  never 
rightly  put  it  to  himself  until  now  that  if  he  had  to  die  for 
the  death  of  Ewan,  he  must  die  the  death  of  hanging.  That 
horror  of  hanging  which  all  men  have  was  stronger  in  Dan 
than  in  most.  With  the  grim  vision  before  him  of  a  shameful 
and  damning  death  it  came  to  him  to  tell  himself  that  belter, 
a  thousand  times  better,  was  death  in  that  living  tomb  than 
the  death  that  awaited  him  outside  it.  Then  he  thought  of 
his  father,  and  of  the  abasement  of  that  good  man  if  so  great 
a  shame  overtook  his  son,  and  thereupon,  at  the  same  breath 
with  a  prayer  to  God  that  he  might  die  where  he  was,  a 
horrible  blasphemy  bolted  from  his  lips.  He  was  in  higher 
hands  than  his  own.  God  had  saved  him  from  himself.  At 
least  he  was  not  to  die  on  the  gallows.  He  had  but  one 
prayer  now,  and  it  cried  in  its  barrenness  of  hope,  "  Let  me 
never  leave  this  place  ! "  His  soul  was  crushed  as  the  moth 
that  will  never  lift  wing  again. 

But  at  that  his  agony  took  another  turn.  He  reflected 
that,  if  God's  hand  was  keeping  him  from  the  just  punish- 
ment of  his  crime,  God  was  holding  him  back  from  the 
atonement  that  was  to  wash  his  crime  away.  At  this  thought 
he  was  struck  with  a  great  trembling.  He  wrestled  with  it, 
but  it  would  not  be  overcome.  Had  he  not  parted  with 
Mona  with  the  firm  purpose  of  giving  himself  up  to  the  law  ? 
Yet  at  every  hour  since  that  parting  some  impediment  had 
arisen.  First,  there  were  the  men  in  the  shed  at  the  creek, 
their  resolve  to  bury  the  body,  and  his  own  weak  acquiescence  ; 
then  came  the  dead  calm  out  at  sea  when  he  stood  at  the 
tiller,  and  the  long  weary  drifting  on  the  wide  waters ;  and 
now  there  was  this  last  strange  accident.  It  was  as  if  a 
higher  will  had  willed  it  that  he  should  die  before  his  atone- 
ment could  be  made.  His  spirit  sank  yet  lower,  and  he  was 
for  giving  up  all  as  lost.    In  the  anguish  of  despair  he  thought 

184 


A   RESURRECTION   INDEED 

that  in  very  deed  it  must  be  that  he  had  committed  the 
unpardonable  sin.  This  terrible  idea  clung  to  him  like  a 
leech  at  a  vein.  And  then  it  came  to  him  to  think  what  a 
mockery  his  dream  of  atonement  had  been.  What  atone- 
ment could  a  bad  man  make  for  spilling  the  blood  of  a  good 
oncf*  He  could  but  send  his  own  wasted  life  after  a  life 
well  spent.  Would  a  righteous  God  take  that  for  a  just 
balance  ?  Mockeiy  of  mockeries !  No,  no ;  let  him  die 
where  he  now  was,  and  let  his  memory  be  blotted  out,  and 
his  sin  be  remembered  no  more. 

He  tried  to  compose  himself,  and  pressed  one  hand  hard 
at  his  breast  to  quiet  the  labouring  of  his  heart.  He  began 
to  reckon  the  moments.  In  this  he  had  no  object,  or  none 
save  only  that  mysterious  longing  of  a  dying  man  to  know 
how  the  hour  drags  on.  With  the  one  hand  that  was  free 
he  took  out  his  watch,  intending  to  listen  for  the  beat  of  its 
seconds ;  but  his  watch  had  stopped ;  no  doubt  it  was  full  of 
water.  His  heart  beat  loud  enough.  Then  he  went  on  to 
count — one,  two,  three.  But  his  mind  was  in  a  whirl,  and 
he  lost  his  reckoning.  He  found  that  he  had  stopped  count- 
ing, and  forgotten  the  number.  W^hether  five  minutes  or 
fifty  had  passed  he  could  not  be  sure. 

But  time  was  passing.  The  wind  began  to  rise.  At  first 
Dan  felt  nothing  of  it  as  he  stood  in  his  deep  tomb.  He 
could  hear  its  thin  hiss  over  the  mouth  of  the  shaft,  and  that 
was  all.  But  presently  the  hiss  deepened  to  a  sough.  Dan 
had  often  heard  of  the  wind's  sob.  It  was  a  reality,  and  no 
metaphor,  as  he  listened  to  the  wind  now.  The  wind  began  to 
descend.  With  a  great  swoop  it  came  down  the  shaft,  licked 
the  walls,  gathered  voice  from  the  echoing  water  at  the 
bottom,  struggled  for  escape,  roared  like  a  caged  lion,  and 
was  once  more  sucked  up  to  the  surface,  with  a  noise  like 
the  breaking  of  a  huge  wave  over  a  reef.  The  tumult  of  the 
wind  in  the  shaft  was  hard  to  bear,  but  when  it  was  gone  it 
was  the  silence  that  seemed  to  be  deafening.  Then  the  rain 
began  to  fall.  Dan  knew  this  by  the  quick  monotonous 
patter  overhead.  But  no  rain  touched  him.  It  was  driven 
aslant  by  the  wind,  and  fell  only  against  the  uppermost  part 
of  the  walls  of  the  shaft.  Sometimes  a  soft  thin  shower  fell 
over  him.  It  was  like  a  spray  from  a  cataract,  except  that 
the  volume  of  water  from  which  it  came  was  above  and  not 
beneath  him. 

13  185 


THE  DEEMSTER 

It  was  then,  in  the  deadly  sickness  of  fear,  that  there  came 
to  Dan  the  dread  of  miscarrying  for  ever  if  he  should  die 
now.  He  seemed  to  see  what  it  was  to  die  the  unredeemed. 
Not  to  be  forgiven,  but  to  be  for  ever  accursed,  to  be  cut  off 
from  the  living  that  live  in  God's  peace — the  dead  darkness 
of  that  doom  stood  up  before  him.  Life  had  looked  very  dear 
to  him  before,  but  what  now  of  everlasting  death.'*  He  was 
as  one  who  was  dead  before  his  death  came.  Live  he  could 
not,  die  he  dared  not.  His  past  life  rose  up  in  front  of 
him,  and  he  drank  of  memory's  very  dregs.  It  was  all  so 
fearsome  and  strange  that,  as  he  recalled  its  lost  hours  one 
by  one,  it  was  as  if  he  were  a  stranger  to  himself.  He  saw 
himself  like  Esau,  who  for  a  morsel  of  meat  had  sold  his 
birthright,  and  could  thereafter  find  no  acceptance,  though 
he  sought  it  with  tears.  The  Scripture  leapt  to  his  mind 
which  says  ''It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  living  God." 

And  then  from  the  past  to  the  future  his  mind  went  on  in 
a  rapid  and  ceaseless  whirl.  He  saw  himself  fleeing  as  from 
the  face  of  a  dreadful  judge.  Tossed  with  the  terror  of  a 
dreadful  doom,  he  saw  his  place  in  the  world,  cold,  empty, 
forsaken.  He  saw  his  old  father  too,  the  saintly  Bishop, 
living  under  the  burden  of  a  thousand  sorrows,  while  he  who 
was  the  life  of  the  good  man's  life,  but  his  no  longer,  was  a 
restless,  wandering  soul,  coming  as  a  cold  blast  of  wind 
between  him  and  his  heaven.  "That  thought  was  the  worst 
terror  of  all,  and  Dan  heard  a  cry  burst  from  his  throat  that 
roused  echoes  of  horror  in  the  dark  pit. 

Then,  as  if  his  instinct  acted  without  help  from  his  mind, 
Dan  began  to  contemplate  measures  for  escape.  That  un- 
expected softness  of  the  rock  which  had  at  first  appalled  him 
began  now  to  give  him  some  painful  glimmerings  of  hope. 
If  the  sides  of  the  shaft  had  been  of  the  slate  rock  of  the 
island,  the  ledge  he  had  laid  hold  of  would  not  have  crumbled 
in  his  hand  That  it  was  soft  showed  that  there  must  be  a 
vein  of  sandstone  running  across  the  shaft.  Dan's  bewildered 
mind  recalled  the  fact  that  Orris  Head  was  a  rift  of  red  sand 
and  soft  sandstone.  If  this  vein  were  but  deep  enough  his 
safety  was  assured.  He  could  cut  niches  into  it  with  a  knife, 
and  so,  perhaps,  after  infinite  pain  and  labour,  reach  the 
surface. 

Steadying  himself  with  one  hand,  Dan  felt  in  his  pockets 

186 


A   RESURRECTION   INDEED 

for  his  knife.  It  was  not  there  !  Now  indeed  his  death 
seemed  certain.  He  was  icy  cold  and  feverishly  hot  at  inter- 
vals. His  clothes  were  wet ;  the  water  still  dripped  from 
them,  and  fell  into  the  hidden  tarn  beneath  in  hollow  drops. 
But  not  to  hope  now  would  have  been  not  to  fear.  Dan  re- 
membered that  he  had  a  pair  of  small  scissors  which  he  had 
used  three  days  ago  in  scratching  his  name  on  the  silver 
buckle  of  his  militia  belt.  When  searching  for  his  knife  he 
had  felt  it  in  his  pocket,  and  spurned  it  for  resembling  the 
knife  to  the  touch  of  his  nervous  fingers.  Now  it  was  to  be 
his  sole  instrument.  He  found  it  again,  and  with  this  paltry 
help  he  set  himself  to  his  work  of  escape  from  the  dark, 
deep  tunnel  that  stood  upright. 

I'he  night  was  wearing  on ;  hour  after  hour  went  by.  The 
wind  dropped;  the  rain  ceased  to  patter  overhead.  Dan 
toiled  on  step  over  step.  Resting  sometimes  on  the  largest 
and  firmest  of  the  projecting  ledges,  he  looked  up  at  the  sky. 
The  leaden  grey  had  changed  to  a  dark  blue,  studded  with 
stars.  The  moon  arose  very  late,  being  in  its  last  quarter, 
and  much  beset  by  rain-clouds.  It  shone  a  little  way  down 
the  shaft,  lighting  all  the  rest.  Dan  knew  it  must  be  early 
morning.  One  star,  a  large,  full  globe  of  light,  twinkled 
directly  above  him.  He  sat  long  and  watched  it,  and  turned 
again  and  again  in  his  toilsome  journey  to  look  at  it.  At  one 
moment  it  crept  into  his  heart  that  the  star  was  a  symbol  of 
hope  to  him.  Then  he  twisted  back  to  his  work,  and  when 
he  looked  again  the  star  was  gone — it  had  moved  beyond  his 
ken,  it  had  passed  out  of  the  range  of  his  narrow  spot  of 
heaven.     Somehow  it  had  been  a  mute  companion. 

Dan's  spirit  sank  in  his  cheerless  solitude,  but  he  toiled  on. 
His  strength  was  far  spent.  The  moon  died  off,  and  the  stars 
went  out  one  after  one.  Then  a  deep  cloud  of  darkness  over- 
spread the  little  sky  above.  Dan  knew  it  must  be  the  dark- 
ness that  precedes  the  dawn.  He  had  reached  a  ledge  of 
rock  that  was  wider  than  any  of  the  ledges  that  were  beneath 
it.  Clearly  enough  a  wooden  rafter  had  lain  along  it.  Dan 
rested  and  looked  up.  At  that  moment  he  heard  the  liglit 
patter  of  little  feet  overhead.  It  was  a  stray  sheep,  a  lamb 
of  last  year's  flock,  wandering  and  lost.  Though  he  could 
not  see  it,  he  knew  it  was  there,  and  it  bleated  down  the  shaft. 
Th(^  melancholy  cry  of  the  lost  creature  in  that  dismal  place 
touched  a  seared  place  on  Dan's  heart,  and  made  the  tears 

187 


THE   DEEMSTER 

which  he  had  not  shed  until  now  to  start  from  his  eyes. 
What  old  memory  did  it  awaken  ?  He  could  not  recall  it  at 
first,  but  then  he  remembered  the  beautiful  story  which  he 
had  heard  many  times  of  the  lost  lamb  that  came  to  the 
church  porch  at  the  christening  of  Ewan.  Was  it  strange  that 
there  and  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Ewan's  child,  the  babe 
that  was  innocent  of  its  great  sorrows  to  come  ?  He  began 
to  wish  himself  a  little  child  again,  walking  by  his  father's 
hand,  with  all  the  years  rolled  back,  and  all  the  transgres- 
sions of  the  years  blotted  out  as  a  cloud,  and  with  a  new  spirit 
sweet  and  fresh,  where  now  was  a  spirit  seared  and  old,  and 
one  great  aching  wound.  In  a  moment  the  outcast  lamb  went 
off,  sending  up,  as  it  went,  its  pitiful  cry  into  the  night.  Dan 
was  alone  once  more,  but  that  visitation  had  sweetly  refreshed 
his  spirit. 

Then  it  came  back  to  him  to  think  that  of  a  surety  it  was 
not  all  one  whether  he  died  where  he  was,  never  coming 
alive  from  his  open  tomb,  or  died  for  his  crime  before  the 
faces  of  all  men.  He  must  live,  he  must  live,  though  not  for 
life's  sake,  but  to  rob  death  of  its  worst  terrors.  And  as  for 
the  impediments  that  had  arisen  to  prevent  the  atonement  on 
which  his  mind  was  set,  they  were  not  from  God  to  lay  his 
soul  outside  the  reach  of  mercy,  but  from  the  devil  to  beset 
liim  and  keep  him  back  from  the  washing  away  of  his  sin. 
This  thought  revived  him,  and  he  turned  to  his  task  with  a 
new  resolve. 

His  fingers  were  chilled  to  the  bone,  and  his  clothes  clung 
like  damp  cerements  to  his  body.  The  meagre  blades  of  the 
scissors  were  worn  short ;  they  could  not  last  long.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  on  the  ledge  of  rock,  and  plunged  the  scissors  into 
the  blank  wall  above  him,  and  at  that  a  fresh  disaster  seemed 
to  overwhelm  him.  His  hand  went  into  soft  earth  ;  the  vein  of 
rock  had  finished,  and  above  it  must  be  loose,  uncertain  mould ! 

He  gasped  at  the  discovery.  A  minute  since  life  had  looked 
very  dear.  Must  he  abandon  his  hopes  after  all  ?  He  n)ight 
have  been  longer  vexed  with  this  new  fear,  but  that  he  re- 
called at  that  moment  the  words  spoken  by  Jarvis  Kerruish  as 
he  went  by  on  the  road  that  ran  near  the  mouth  of  the  shaft. 
Was  it  not  clear  that  Quilleash  and  the  fisher-fellows  were 
being  pursued  as  his  associates  .f*  Without  his  evidence  to 
clear  them,  would  they  not  surely  suffer,  innocent  though  they 
might  be,  and  even  though  he  himself  lay  dead  in  this  place  ? 

ISS 


A   RESURRECTION   INDEED 

Now,  indeed,  he  saw  that  he  must  of  a  certainty  escape  from 
this  death  in  Ufe,  no  difficulties  conquering  him. 

Dan  paused  and  reflected.  As  nearly  as  he  could  remember, 
he  had  made  thirty  niches  in  the  rock.  Hence  he  must  be 
fully  thirty  feet  from  the  water  and  ten  from  the  surface. 
Only  ten  feet,  and  then  freedom.  Yet  these  ten  seemed  to 
represent  an  impossibility.  To  ascend  by  holes  dug  deep  in 
the  soft  earth  was  a  perilous  enterprise.  A  great  clot  of  soil 
might  at  any  moment  give  way  above  or  beneath  him,  and 
then  he  would  be  plunged  once  more  into  the  pit.  If  he  fell 
from  the  side  of  the  shaft  he  would  be  more  likely  than  at 
first,  when  he  fell  from  the  top,  to  strike  on  one  of  the  pro- 
jecting ledges  and  be  killed  before  reaching  the  water. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  Perhaps 
the  daylight  would  reveal  some  less  hazardous  method  of 
escape.  Slowly  the  dully  dead,  impenetrable  blackness  was 
lifted  off.  It  was  as  though  a  spirit  had  breathed  on  the  night, 
and  it  fled  away.  When  the  woolly  hue  of  morning  dappled 
his  larger  sky,  Dan  could  hear  the  slow  beat  of  the  waves  on 
the  shore.  The  coast  rose  up  before  his  vision  then,  silent, 
solemn,  alone  with  the  dawn.  The  light  crept  into  his  prison- 
house,  and  he  looked  down  at  the  deep  black  tarn  beneath  him. 

And  now  hope  rose  in  his  heart  again.  Overhead  he  saw 
timbers  running  around  and  across  the  shaft.  These  had 
been  used  to  bank  up  the  earth,  and  to  make  two  grooves  in 
which  the  ascending  and  descending  cages  had  once  worked. 
Dan  lifted  up  his  soul  in  thankfulness.  The  world  was  once 
more  full  of  grace  even  for  him.  He  could  climb  from  stay 
to  stay,  and  so  reach  the  surface.  Catching  one  of  the  stays 
in  his  uphfted  hands,  he  swung  his  knee  on  to  another.  One 
stage  he  accomplished,  and  then  how  stiff  were  his  joints,  and 
how  sinewless  his  fingers  !  Another  and  another  stage  he 
reached,  and  then  four  feet  and  no  more  were  between  him 
and  the  gorse  that  waved  in  the  light  of  the  risen  sun  across 
the  mouth  of  his  night-long  tomb. 

But  the  rain  of  years  had  eaten  into  these  timbers.  In 
some  places  they  crumbled,  and  were  rotten.  God  !  how  the 
one  on  which  he  rested  creaked  under  him  at  that  instant  I 
Another  minute,  and  then  his  toilsome  journey  would  be  over. 
Another  minute,  and  his  dead  self  would  be  left  behind  him, 
buried  for  ever  in  this  grave.  Then  there  would  be  a  resur- 
rection in  very  truth.     Yes,  truly,  God  helping  him. 

IH9 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Half-an-hour  later,  Dan  Mylrea,  with  swimming  eyes  and  a 
big  heart,  was  walking  towards  the  Deemster  at  Ballamona. 
The  flush  of  the  sun  newly  risen,  and  the  brighter  glory  of  a 
great  hope  newly  born,  was  on  his  worn  and  pallid  cheek. 
What  terrors  had  life  for  him  now  ?  It  had  none.  And  very 
soon  death  also  would  lose  its  sting.  Atonement !  atone- 
ment !  It  was  even  as  he  had  thought ;  a  wasted  life  for  a 
life  well  spent,  the  life  of  a  bad  man  for  the  life  of  a  good 
one,  but  all  he  had  to  give — all,  all ! 

And  when  he  came  to  lay  his  offering  at  the  merciful 
Father's  feet  it  would  not  be  spurned. 


CHAPTER  XXYI 

HOW    EWAN    CAME    TO    CHURCH 

It  is  essential  to  the  progress  of  this  history  that  we  should 
leave  Dan  where  he  now  is,  in  the  peace  of  a  great  soul 
newly  awakened,  and  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  this  Christ- 
mas Day  on  shore. 

The  parish  of  Michael  began  that  day  with  all  its  old  obser- 
vances. While  the  dawn  of  Christmas  morning  was  struggling 
but  feebly  with  the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  a  gang  of  the  baser 
sort  went  out  with  lanterns  and  long  sticks  into  the  lanes,  there 
to  whoop  and  beat  the  bushes.  It  was  their  annual  hunting 
of  the  wren.  Before  the  parish  had  sat  down  to  its  Christmas 
breakfast  two  of  these  lusty  enemies  of  the  tiny  bird  were  stand- 
ing in  the  street  of  the  village,  with  a  long  pole  from  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  and  a  wee  wren  suspended  from  the  middle  of  it. 
Their  brave  companions  gathered  round,  and  plucked  a  feather 
from  the  wren's  breast  now  and  again.  At  one  side  of  the  com- 
pany, surrounded  by  a  throng  of  children,  was  Hommy-beg, 
singing  a  carol,  and  playing  his  own  accompaniment  on  his 
fiddle.  The  carol  told  a  tragic  story  of  an  evil  spirit  in  the  shape 
of  a  woman  who  pestered  the  island  in  the  old  days,  of  how  the 
people  rose  up  against  her  to  drive  her  into  the  sea,  and  of  how 
she  turned  herself  into  a  wren,  and  all  on  the  holy  day  of  the 
blessed  St.  Stephen.  A  boy,  whose  black  eyes  danced  with  a 
mischievous  twinkle,  held  a  crumpled  paper  upside  down  before 
the  gardener,  and  from  this  inverted  text  and  score  the  unlet- 

190 


HOW  EWAN   CAME  TO   CHURCH 

tered  coxcomb  pretended  to  play  and  sing.  The  women  came 
to  their  doors  to  listen,  and  the  men  with  their  two  hands  in 
their  breeches  pockets  leaned  against  the  ends  of  their  houses 
and  smoked  and  looked  on  sleepily. 

When  the  noisy  crowd  had  passed,  the  street  sank  back  to 
its  customary  repose,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  a  child — a 
little  auburn-haired  lassie,  in  a  white  apron  tucked  up  in  fish- 
wife fashion — crying,  "Shrimps,  fine  shrimps,  fresh  shrimps!" 
and  then  by  a  lustier  voice  that  drowned  the  little  lassie's 
tones,  and  cried,  "Conger — conger  eel — fine,  ladies — fresh, 
ladies — and  bellies  as  big  as  bishops!    Conger  eel — con-ger!" 

It  was  not  a  brilliant  morning,  but  the  sun  was  shining 
drowsily  through  a  white  haze  like  a  dew  fog  that  hid  the 
mountains.  The  snow  of  the  night  before  was  not  quite 
washed  away  by  the  sharp  rain  of  the  morning ;  it  still  lay 
at  the  eaves  of  the  thatched  houses,  and  among  the  cobbles 
of  the  paved  pathway.  The  blue  smoke  was  coiling  up 
through  the  thick  air  from  every  chimney  when  the  bells  at 
Bishop's  Court  began  to  ring  for  Christmas  service.  An  old 
woman  here  and  there  came  out  of  her  cabin  in  her  long  blue 
cape  and  her  mutch,  and  hobbled  along  on  a  stick  to  church. 
Two  or  three  men  in  sea-boots,  with  shrimping  nets  over  their 
shoulders  and  pipes  in  their  mouths,  sauntered  down  the  lane 
that  led  by  the  shambles  to  the  shore. 

Half-an-hour  later,  while  the  bells  were  still  ringing,  and 
the  people  were  trooping  into  the  chapel,  the  Bishop  came 
out  of  his  house  and  walked  down  the  path  towards  the  vestry. 
He  had  a  worn  and  jaded  look  that  morning,  as  if  the  night  had 
gone  heavily  with  him,  but  he  smiled  when  the  women  curtsied 
as  they  passed,  and  waved  his  hand  when  the  men  fumbled 
their  caps. 

"Good  morning,  and  a  merry  Christmas  to  you,"  he  said  as  he 
went  by  the  open  porch  to  Will-as-Thorn,  the  parish  clerk,  who 
was  tugging  at  the  bell-rope  there,  bareheaded,  stripped  to  his 
sheepskin  waistcoat  with  its  grey  flannel  sleeves,  and  sweating. 

He  hailed  Billy  the  Gawk,  too,  the  hoary  old  dog  turned 
penitent  in  his  latter  days.  "  A  merry  Christmas,  Billy,  and 
may  you  live  to  see  many  of  them  yet,  please  God  ! " 

Billy  was  leaning  against  the  porch  buttress  and  taking 
alms  if  any  offered  them. 

"  Then  it's  not  living  it  will  be,  my  lord ;  it's  lingering/* 
said  this  old  Bartimeus. 

191 


THE  DEEMSTER 

And  Jabez  Gawne,  the  sleek  little  tailor,  had  the  Bishop's 
salutation  as  he  passed  on  in  the  ancient  cloak  with  many- 
buttons. 

"A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  Jabez,  and  a  good  New  Year." 

''  Aw,  'deed,  my  lord,"  said  Jabez,  with  a  face  as  long  as  a 
fiddle,  "  if  the  New  Year's  no  better  than  the  ould  one,  what 
with  quiet  times  and  high  rents  and  the  children's  schooling, 
it's  going  on  the  houses  I'll  be,  middlin'  safe." 

"  Nay,  nay,  remember  our  old  saying,  Jabez :  the  greater 
the  calm  the  nearer  the  south  wind." 

As  the  Bishop  was  turning  in  at  the  vestry  door,  blind 
Kerry  and  her  husband  Hommy  passed  him,  and  he  hailed 
them  as  he  had  hailed  the  others. 

"  I'm  taking  joy  to  see  you  so  hearty,  my  lord,"  said  the 
blind  woman. 

"  Yes,  I'm  well,  on  the  whole,  thank  God !"  said  the  Bishop; 
"and  how  are  you,  Kerry  .f^" 

"I'm  in,  my  lord,  I'm  in;  but  distracted  mortal  with  the 
sights.  Och,  sir,  it's  allis  the  sights,  and  the  sights,  and  the 
sights  ;  and  it's  Mastha  Dan  that's  in  them  still.  This  morn- 
ing, bless  ye,  when  I  woke,  what  should  it  be,  behould  ye,  but 
a  company  of  great  ones  from  the  big  house  itself],  going  down 
to  the  churchyard  with  lanterns.  Aw,  'deed  it  was,  sir,  my 
lord,  begging  your  pardon,  though  it's  like  enough  you'll  think 
it's  wake  and  a  kind  of  silly,  as  the  say  in'  is." 

The  Bishop  listened  to  the  blind  woman's  garrulous  tongue 
with  a  downcast  head  and  a  look  of  pain,  and  said  in  a  sub- 
dued voice  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  wooden  latch  of  the 
vestry  door — 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  laugh  at  you,  Kerry,  woman.  All 
night  long  I  have  myself  been  tortured  by  an  uneasy  feeling, 
which  would  not  be  explained  or  yet  be  put  away.  But  let  us 
say  no  more  of  such  mysteries.  There  are  dark  places  that 
we  may  never  hope  to  penetrate.  Let  it  content  us  if,  in  God's 
mercy  and  His  wisdom,  we  can  see  the  step  that  is  at  our  feet." 

So  saying,  the  Bishop  turned  about  and  passed  in  at  the  door. 
Kerry  and  her  husband  went  into  the  chapel  at  the  west  porch. 

"  It's  just  an  ould  angel  he  is,"  whispered  Kerry,  reaching 
up  to  Hommy 's  ear,  as  they  went  by  Will-as-Thorn. 

"Aw,  yes,  yes,"  said  Horamy-beg,  "a  rael  ould  archangel, 
so  he  is." 

And  still  the  bells  rang  for  the  service  of  Christmas  morning 

192 


HOW  EWAN   CAME  TO   CHURCH 

Inside  the  chapel  the  congregation  was  larger  than  common. 
There  was  so  much  hand-shaking  and  ^'taking  of  joy"  to  be 
gone  through  in  the  aisles  and  the  pews  that  Christmas  morning 
that  it  was  not  at  first  observed — except  by  malcontents  like 
Billy  the  Gawk  and  Jabez  Gawne,  to  whom  the  wine  of  life 
was  mostly  vinegar — when  the  hour  for  beginning  the  service 
had  come  and  gone.  The  choir  in  the  west  gallery  had  taken 
their  places  on  either  side  of  Will-as-Thorn's  empty  seat  over 
the  clock,  with  the  pitch-pipe  resting  on  the  rail  above  it,  and, 
opening  their  books,  they  faced  about  for  gossip.  Then  the 
bell  stopped,  having  rung  some  minutes  longer  than  was  its 
wont;  the  whispering  was  hushed  from  pew  to  choir,  and 
only  the  sound  of  the  turning  of  the  leaves  of  many  books 
disturbed  the  silence  a  moment  afterwards. 

The  Bishop  entered  the  chancel,  and,  while  he  knelt  to 
pray,  down  like  com  before  a  south  wind  went  a  hundred 
heads  on  to  the  book-rail  before  the  wind  of  custom.  When 
the  Bishop  rose  there  was  the  sound  of  shuffling  and  settling 
in  the  pews,  followed  by  some  craning  of  necks  in  his  direction 
and  some  subdued  whispering. 

"  Where  is  Pazon  Ewan  ?  " 

"  What's  come  of  the  young  pazon  ?  " 

The  Bishop  sat  alone  in  the  chancel,  and  gave  no  sign  of 
any  intention  to  commence  the  service.  In  the  gallery,  the 
choir,  books  in  hand,  waited  for  Will-as-Thorn  to  take  his  seat 
over  the  clock  ;  but  his  place  remained  empty.  Then,  to  the 
universal  surprise,  the  bell  began  to  ring  again.  Steadily  at 
first  and  timidly,  and  after  that  with  lusty  voice  the  bell  rang 
out  over  the  heads  of  the  astonished  people.  Forthwith  the 
people  laid  those  same  heads  together  and  whispered. 

Wliat  was  agate  of  Pazon  Ewan  ?  Had  he  forgotten  that 
lie  had  to  preach  that  morning  f  Blind  Kerry  wanted  to  know 
if  some  of  the  men  craythurs  shouldn't  just  take  a  slieu  round 
to  ould  Ballamona  and  wake  him  up,  as  the  saying  is ;  but 
Mr.  Quirk,  in  more  "  gintale  "  phraseology,  as  became  his  scho- 
lastic calling,  gave  it  out  as  probable  that  the  young  pazon 
had  only  been  making  a  ^'little  deetower"  after  breakfast, 
and  gone  a  little  too  far. 

Still  the  bell  rang,  and  the  uneasy  shuffling  in  the  pews 
grew  more  noticeable.  Presently,  in  the  middle  of  an  abridged 
movement  of  the  iron  tongue  in  the  loft,  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  Will-as-Thorn  appeared  in  the  opening  of  the  green  curtain 

193 


THE  DEEMSTER 

that  divided  the  porch  from  the  body  of  the  chapel,  and  the 
parish-clerk  beckoned  to  Hommy-beg.  Shambling  to  his  feet 
and  down  the  aisle,  Hommy  obeyed  the  summons,  and  then, 
amid  yet  more  vigorous  bobbing  together  of  many  heads  in 
the  pews,  the  schoolmaster,  not  to  be  eclipsed  at  a  moment 
of  public  excitement,  got  up  also  and  followed  the  gardener 
into  the  porch.  The  whispering  had  risen  to  a  sibilant  hiss 
that  deadened  even  the  bell's  loud  clangour  when  little  Jabez 
Gawne  himself  felt  a  call  to  rise  and  go  out  after  the  others. 

All  this  time  the  Bishop  sat  motionless  in  the  chancel,  his 
head  down,  his  face  rather  paler  than  usual,  his  whole  figure 
somewhat  weak  and  languid,  as  if  continued  suffering  in  silence 
and  in  secret  had  at  length  taken  the  power  of  life  out  of  him. 
Presently  the  bell  stopped  suddenly,  and  almost  instantly  little 
Jabez,  with  a  face  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  came  back  to  his  pew, 
and  Mr.  Quirk  also  returned  to  his  place,  shaking  his  head 
meantime  with  portentous  gravity.  A  moment  later  Will-as- 
Thorn  appeared  inside  the  communion- rail,  having  put  on  his 
coat  and  whipped  the  lash  comb  through  his  hair,  which  now 
hung  like  a  dozen  of  wet  dip  candles  down  his  forehead 
straight  for  his  eyes. 

The  dull  buzz  of  gossip  ceased,  all  was  dead  silence  in  the 
chapel,  and  many  necks  were  craned  forward  as  Will-as-Thorn 
was  seen  to  go  up  to  the  Bishop  and  speak  to  him.  Listening 
without  much  apparent  concern  the  Bishop  nodded  his  head 
once  or  twice,  then  rose  immediately  and  walked  to  the  read- 
ing-desk. Almost  at  the  same  moment  Will-as-Thorn  took 
his  seat  over  the  clock  in  the  little  west  gallery,  and  straight- 
way the  service  began. 

The  choir  sang  the  psalm  which  they  had  practised  at  the 
parish  church  the  evening  before — "  It  is  good  for  me  that  I 
have  been  in  trouble,  that  I  may  learn  thy  statutes."  Instead 
of  the  lesson  appointed  in  the  Calendar,  the  Bishop  read  the 
story  of  Eli  and  of  Samuel,  and  of  the  taking  by  the  Philistines 
of  the  ark  of  the  covenant  of  God.  His  voice  was  deep  and 
measured,  and  when  he  came  to  read  of  the  death  of  Eli's 
sons,  and  of  how  the  bad  news  was  brought  to  Eli,  his  voice 
softened  and  all  but  broke. 

"  And  there  ran  a  man  of  Benjamin  out  of  the  army,  and 
came  to  Shiloh  the  same  day  with  his  clothes  rent,  and  with 
earth  upon  his  head. 

''  And  when  he  came,  lo,  Eli  sat  upon  a  seat  by  the  wayside 


HOW  EWAN   CAME  TO   CHURCH 

watching ;  for  his  heart  trembled  for  the  ark  of  God.  And 
when  the  man  came  into  the  city,  and  told  it,  all  the  city 
cried  out. 

"And  when  Eli  heaj'd  the  noise  of  the  crying,  he  said, 
'What  meaneth  the  noise  of  this  tumult.'*'  And  the  man 
came  m  hastily  and  told  Eli. 

"  Now  Eli  was  ninety  and  eight  years  old,  and  his  eyes  were 
dim  that  he  could  not  see. 

"  And  the  man  said  unto  Eli,  '  I  am  he  that  came  out  of  the 
army,  and  1  fled  to-day  out  of  the  army.'  And  he  said, '  What 
is  there  done,  my  son  }'" 

The  Bishop  preached  but  rarely  now,  and  partly  for  the 
reverence  they  always  owed  the  good  man,  and  partly  for  the 
reason  that  they  did  not  often  hear  him,  the  people  composed 
themselves  to  a  mood  of  sympathy  as  he  ascended  the  pulpit 
that  Christmas  morning.  It  was  a  beautiful  sermon  that  he 
gave  them,  and  it  was  spoken  without  premeditation,  and  was 
loose  enough  in  its  structure.  But  it  was  full  of  thought  that 
seemed  to  be  too  simple  to  be  deep,  and  of  emotion  that  was 
too  deep  to  be  anything  but  simple.  It  touched  on  the  life 
of  Christ,  from  His  birth  in  Bethlehem  to  His  coming  as  a  boy 
to  the  Temple  where  the  doctors  sat,  and  so  on  to  the  agony 
in  the  garden.  And  then  it  glanced  aside,  as  touchingly  as 
irrelevantly,  at  the  story  of  Eli  and  his  sons,  and  the  judgment 
of  God  on  Israel's  prophet.  In  that  beautiful  digression  the 
Bishop  warned  all  parents  that  it  was  their  duty  before  God 
to  bring  up  their  children  in  God's  fear,  or  tlieirs  would  be 
the  sorrow,  and  their  children's  the  suffering  and  the  shame 
everlasting.  And  then  in  a  voice  that  could  barely  support 
itself  he  made  an  allusion  that  none  could  mistake. 

"  Strange  it  is,  and  very  pitiful,"  he  said,  ''  that  what  we 
think  in  our  weakness  to  be  the  holiest  of  our  human  affec- 
tions may  be  a  snare  and  a  stumbling-block.  Strange  enough, 
surely,  and  very  sad,  that  even  as  the  hardest  of  soul  among 
us  all  may  be  free  from  blame  where  his  children  stand  for 
judgment,  so  the  tenderest  of  heart  may,  like  Eli  of  old,  be 
swept  from  the  face  of  the  living  God  for  the  iniquity  of  his 
children,  which  he  has  not  restrained.  But  tlie  best  of  our 
earthly  passions,  or  what  seem  to  be  the  best,  the  love  of  the 
mother  for  the  babe  at  her  breast,  the  pride  of  the  father  in 
the  son  that  is  flesh  of  his  flesh,  must  be  indulged  with  sin  if 
it  is  not  accepted  with  grace.     True,  too  true,  that  there  are 

195 


THE  DEEMSTER 

those  of  us  who  may  cast  no  stone,  who  should  offer  no  counsel. 
Like  Eli  we  know  that  the  word  of  God  has  gone  out  against 
us,  and  we  can  but  bend  our  foreheads  and  say,  'It  is  the 
Lord,  let  Him  do  what  seemeth  Him  good.' " 

When  the  sermon  ended  there  was  much  needless  industry 
in  searching  for  books  under  the  book-rail,  much  furtive  wiping 
of  the  eyes,  much  demonstrative  blowing  of  the  nose,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  benediction  a  good  deal  of  subdued  whispering. 

"  Aw,  'deed,  the  ould  Bishop  bates  the  young  pazon  himself 
at  putting  out  the  talk — studdier  like,  and  not  so  fiery  maybe; 
but,  man  alive,  the  tender  he  is  !  " 

''And  d'ye  mind  that  taste  about  Eli  and  them  two  idiot 
waistrels  Hoffnee  and  Fin-e-ass  }  " 

"  And  did  ye  observe  the  ould  man  thrembling  mortal  ?  " 

"  Och,  yes,  and  I'll  go  bail  it  wasn't  them  two  blackyards 
he  was  thinking  of,  at  all  at  all." 

When  the  service  came  to  an  end,  and  the  congregation 
was  breaking  up,  and  Billy  the  Gawk  was  hobbling  down  the 
aisle  on  a  pair  of  sticks,  that  hoary  old  sinner,  turned  saint 
because  fallen  sick,  was  muttering  something  about  "  a  rael 
good  ould  father,"  and  "dirts  like  that  Dan,"  and  "a  thun- 
d'rin'  rascal  with  all." 

A  strange  scene  came  next.  The  last  of  the  congregation 
had  not  yet  reached  the  porch,  when  all  at  once  there  was  an 
uneasy  move  among  them  hke  the  ground  swell  among  the 
shoalings  before  the  storm  comes  to  shore.  Those  who  were  in 
front  fell  back  or  turned  about  and  nodded  as  if  they  wished 
to  say  something ;  and  those  who  were  behind  seemed  to  think 
and  wonder.  Then,  sudden  as  the  sharp  crack  of  the  first 
breaker  on  a  reef,  the  faces  of  the  people  fell  to  a  great 
heaviness  of  horror,  and  the  air  was  full  of  mournful  exclama- 
tions, surprise  and  terror. 

"  Lord  ha'  massy  ! " 

"  Dead,  you  say  }  " 

"  Aw,  dead  enough.** 

"  Washed  ashore  by  the  Mooragh  ?  *' 

"  So  they're  sayin',  so  they're  sayin'.*' 

"  Hiain  Jean  myghin  orrin — Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !  '* 

Half  a  minute  later  the  whole  congregation  were  gathered 
outside  the  west  porch.  There,  in  the  recess  between  the 
chapel  and  the  house,  two  men,  fisher-fellows  of  Michael,  stood 
surround  fid  by  a  throng  of  people.     Something  lay  at  their 

196 


HOW  EWAN   CAME  TO   CHURCH 

feet,  and  the  crowd  made  a  circle  about  it,  looked  down  at  it 
and  drew  long  breaths.  And  when  one  after  another  came 
up,  reached  over  the  heads  of  others,  and  saw  what  lay  within, 
he  turned  away  with  uplifted  hands  and  a  face  that  was  white 
with  fear, 

"  Lord  ha'  massy  !  Lord  ha'  massy ! "  cried  the  people  on 
every  side,  and  their  senses  were  confused  and  overpowered. 

What  the  dread  thing  was  that  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  two 
fishermen  does  not  need  to  be  said. 

"At  the  Mooragh,  d'ye  say .^ — came  ashore  at  the  Mooragh.?" 

"  Ay,  at  the  top  of  the  flood." 

"  God  bless  me  !  " 

"  I  saw  it  an  hour  before  it  drifted  in,"  said  one  of  the  two 
grave  fellows.  "  I  was  down  longshore  shrimping,  and  it  was  a 
good  piece  out  to  sea,  and  a  heavy  tide  running.  '  Lord  ha' 
massy,  what's  that  ? '  I  says.  '  It's  a  gig  with  a  sail,'  I  was 
thinking,  but  no,  it  was  looking  too  small.  '  It's  a  diver,  or 
maybe  a  solan  goose  with  its  wings  stretched  out ; '  but  no,  it 
was  looking  too  big." 

"  Bless  me  !     Lord  bless  me  ! " 

''  And  when  it  came  a  piece  nearer  it  was  into  the  sea  I 
was  going,  breast  high  and  more,  and  I  came  anigh  it,  and 
saw  what  it  was — and  frightened  mortal,  you  go  bail — and 
away  to  the  street  for  Jemmy  here,  and  back  middlin'  sharp, 
and  it  driffin'  and  driffin'  on  the  beach  by  that  time,  and  the 
water  flopping  on  it,  and  the  two  of  us  up  with  it  on  to  our 
shoulders,  and  straight  away  for  the  Coort." 

And  sure  enough  the  fisherman's  clothes  were  drenched 
above  his  middle,  and  the  shoulders  of  both  men  were  wet. 

'^  Bless  me  !  bless  me  !  Lord  ha'  massy  !  "  echoed  one  and 
then  another,  and  once  again  they  craned  their  necks  forward 
and  looked  down. 

The  loose  canvas  that  had  been  ripped  open  by  the  weights 
was  lying  where  the  seams  were  stretched,  and  none  uncovered 
the  face,  for  the  sense  of  human  death  was  strong  on  all.  But 
word  had  gone* about  whose  body  it  was,  and  blind  Kerry, 
wringing  her  hands  and  muttering  something  about  the  sights, 
pushed  her  way  to  the  side  of  the  two  men,  and  asked  why 
they  had  brought  their  burden  to  Bishop's  Court  instead  of 
taking  it  to  Ballamona. 

"Aw,  well,"  they  answered,  "we  were  thinking  the  Bisliop 
was  his  true  father,  and  Bishop's  Coort  his  true  home  for  all." 

1.07 


THE  DEEMSTER 

"  And  that's  true,  too,"  said  Kerry,  "  for  his  own  father  has 
been  worse  than  a  haythen  naygro  to  him,  and  lave  it  to  me 
to  know,  for  didn't  I  bring  the  milHsh  into  the  world  ?  " 

Then  there  came  a  rush  of  people  down  the  road  from 
the  village.  A  rumour  that  something  horrible  had  washed 
ashore  had  passed  quickly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  after  the 
fisherman  had  run  up  to  the  village  for  help.  And  now 
in  low,  eager  tones,  questions  and  answers  came  and  went 
among  the  crowd.  "Who  is  it.'*"  "Is  it  the  captain?" 
"  What,  Mastha  Dan  }  "  "  That's  what  they're  sayin'  up  the 
street  anyway."  '^Wrapped  in  a  hammock — good  Lord  pre- 
serve us!"  "Came  up  in  the  tide-way  at  the  Mooragh — 
gracious  me  !  and  I  saw  him  myself  only  yesterday." 

The  Bishop  was  seen  to  come  out  of  the  vestry  door,  and 
at  the  sight  of  him  the  crowd  seemed  to  awake  out  of  its 
first  stupor.  "  God  help  the  Bishop  !  "  "  Here  he's  coming." 
"Bless  me,  he'll  have  to  pass  it  by,  going  into  the  house." 
"The  shock  will  kill  the  ould  man."  "Poor  thing!  poor 
thing  !  "  "  Some  one  must  up  and  break  the  bad  newses  to 
him."     "Aw,  yes,  for  sure." 

And  then  came  the  question  of  who  was  to  tell  the  Bishop 
First,  the  people  asked  one  Corlett  Ballafayle.  Corlett 
farmed  a  hundred  acres,  and  was  a  churchwarden,  and  a 
member  of  the  Keys.  But  the  big  man  said  no,  and  edged 
away.  Then  they  asked  one  of  the  Tubmans,  but  the  brewer 
shook  his  head.  He  could  not  look  into  the  Bishop's  face 
and  tell  him  a  tale  like  that.  At  length  they  thought  of 
blind  Kerry.  She  at  least  would  not  see  the  face  of  the 
stricken  man  when  she  took  him  the  fearful  news. 

"Aw,  yes,  Kerry,  woman,  it's  yourself  for  it,  and  a  rael 
stout  heart  at  you,  and  blind  for  all,  thank  the  Lord." 

"  I'll  try,  please  God,"  said  Kerry,  and  with  that  she  moved 
slowly  towards  the  vestry  door,  where  the  Bishop  had  stopped 
to  stroke  the  yellow  curls  of  a  little  shy  boy,  and  to  ask  him 
his  age  next  birthday,  and  to  wish  him  a  merry  Christmas 
and  eighty  more  of  them,  and  all  merry  ones.  It  was  ob- 
served that  the  good  man's  face  was  brighter  now  than  it 
had  been  when  he  went  into  the  chapel. 

The  people  watched  Kerry  as  she  moved  up  to  the  Bishop. 
Could  she  be  telling  him }  He  was  smiling !  Was  it  not 
his  laugh  that  they  heard  }  Kerry  was  standing  before  him 
in  an  irresolute  way,  and  now  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  he 

198 


HOW  EWAN  CAME  TO   CHURCH 

was  leaving  her.  He  was  coming  forward.  No,  he  had 
stopped  again  to  speak  to  old  Auntie  Nan  from  the  Curragh, 
and  Kerry  had  passed  him  in  returning  to  the  crowd. 

"  I  couldn't  do  it ;  he  spoke  me  so  cheerful,  poor  thing/* 
said  Kerry ;  ''  and  when  I  was  goin'  to  speak  he  looked  the 
spitten  picture  of  my  ould  father." 

The  Bishop  parted  from  the  old  woman  of  the  Curragh, 
and  then  on  raising  his  eyes  he  became  conscious  of  the 
throng  by  the  porch. 

"Lave  it  to  me,"  said  a  rough  voice,  and  Billy  the  Gawk 
stepped  out.  The  crowd  fell  aside,  and  the  fishermen  placed 
themselves  in  front  of  the  dread  thing  on  the  ground.  Smil- 
ing and  bowing  on  the  right  and  left  the  Bishop  was  passing 
on  towards  the  door  that  led  to  the  house  when  the  old 
beggar  of  the  highways  hobbled  in  front  of  him. 

"  We're  right  sorry,  sir,  my  lord,  to  bring  ye  bad  newses," 
the  old  man  stammered,  hfting  the  torn  cap  from  his  head. 

The  Bishop's  face  fell  to  a  sudden  gravity.  "  What  is  it }  " 
he  said,  and  his  voice  sank. 

"  We're  rael  sorry,  but  we  know  your  heart  was  gript  to 
him  with  grapplins." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  some  in  the  crowd. 

"What  is  it,  man?  Speak,"  said  the  Bishop,  and  all 
around  was  silence  and  awe. 

The  old  man  stood  in-esolute  for  a  moment.  Then,  just 
as  he  was  lifting  his  head  to  speak,  and  every  eye  was  on  the 
two  who  stood  in  the  midst,  the  Bishop  and  the  old  beggar, 
there  came  a  loud  noise  from  near  at  hand,  and  voices  that 
sounded  hoarse  and  jarring  were  in  the  air. 

"  Where  is  it }  When  did  they  bring  it  up  ?  Why  is  it 
not  taken  into  the  house  }" 

It  was  the  Deemster,  and  he  came  on  with  great  flashing 
eyes,  and  behind  him  was  Jarvis  Kerruish.  In  an  instant  the 
crowd  had  fallen  aside  for  him,  and  he  had  pushed  through 
and  come  to  a  stand  in  front  of  the  Bishop. 

"  We  know  what  has  happened.     We  have  heard  it  in  the 
village,"  he  said.     "  I  knew  what  it  must  come  to  sooner  or 
later.     I  told  you  a  hundred  times,  and  you  have  only  your 
self  to  thank  for  it." 

The  Bishop  said  not  a  word.  He  saw  what  lay  behind  the 
feet  of  the  fishermen,  and  stepped  up  to  it. 

"  It's  of  your  own  doing,"  shouted  the  Deemster  in  a  a  oice 

199 


THE   DEEMSTER 

of  no  ruth  or  pity.  "  You  would  not  heed  my  warning.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  devil's  own  dues  were  in  him.  He 
hadn't  an  ounce  of  grace  in  his  carcase.  He  put  his  foot  on 
your  neck,  and  threatened  to  do  as  much  for  me  some  day. 
And  see  where  he  is  now !  Look  at  him !  This  is  how 
your  son  comes  home  to  you  ! " 

As  he  spoke,  the  Deemster  pointed  contemptuously  with  the 
handle  of  his  walking-cane  to  the  thing  that  lay  between  them. 

Then  the  hard  tension  of  the  people's  silence  was  broken ; 
they  began  to  mutter  among  themselves  and  to  propose  and 
demur  to  something.  They  saw  the  Deemster's  awful  error, 
and  that  he  thou<]jht  the  dead  man  was  Dan. 

The  Bishop  still  stood  immovable,  with  not  the  sign  of  a 
tear  on  his  white  face,  but  over  it  the  skin  was  drawn  hard. 

"  And  let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more,"  said  the  Deemster. 
"  Whoever  he  may  be  that  brought  matters  to  this  pass,  he 
shall  not  suffer.  I  will  not  lift  a  finger  against  him.  The 
man  who  brings  about  his  own  death  shall  have  the  burden 
of  it  on  his  own  head.     The  law  will  uphold  me." 

Then  a  hoarse  murmur  ran  from  lip  to  lip  among  the  people 
who  stood  around,  and  one  man,  a  burly  fellow,  nerved  by  the 
Deemster's  error,  pushed  forward  and  said — 

"  Deemster,  be  merciful,  as  you  hope  for  mercy ;  you  don't 
know  what  you're  saying." 

At  that  the  Deemster  turned  about  hotly  and  brought  down 
his  walking-cane  with  a  heavy  blow  on  the  man's  breast. 

The  stalwart  fellow  took  the  blow  without  lifting  a  hand. 
"  God  help  you.  Deemster !  "  he  said  in  a  thick  voice,  "  God 
help  you  !  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  Go  and  look 
at  it.  Deemster.  Go  and  look,  if  you've  the  heart  for  it. 
Look  at  it,  man,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  you,  and 
on  us  all  in  our  day  of  trouble,  and  may  God  forgive  you  the 
cruel  words  you've  spoken  to  your  own  brother  this  day  !  " 

There  was  then  a  great  silence  for  a  moment.  The  Deemster 
gazed  in  a  sort  of  stupor  into  the  man's  face,  and  his  stick 
dropped  out  of  his  hand.  With  a  look  of  majesty  and  of 
suffering  the  Bishop  stood  at  one  side  of  the  body,  quiet, 
silent,  giving  no  sign,  seeing  nothing  but  the  thing  at  his 
feet,  and  hardly  hearing  the  reproaches  that  were  being 
hurled  at  him  in  the  face  of  his  people.  The  beating  of  his 
heart  fell  low. 

There  was  a  moment  of  suspense,  and  then,  breathing 

200 


HOW  THE   NEWS   CAME  TO   THE   BISHOP 

rapid  audible  breath,  the  Deemster  stooped  beside  tlie  body, 
stretched  out  a  half-palsied  hand  and  drew  aside  the  loose 
canvas,  and  saw  the  face  of  his  own  son  Ewan. 

One  long  exclamation  of  surprise  and  consternation  broke 
from  the  Deemster,  and  after  that  there  came  another  fearful 
pause,  wherein  the  Bishop  went  down  on  his  knees  beside 
the  body. 

In  an  instant  the  Deemster  fell  back  to  his  savage  mood. 
He  rose  to  his  full  height ;  his  face  became  suddenly  and 
awfully  discoloured  and  stern,  and,  tottering  almost  to  falling, 
he  lifted  his  clenched  fist  to  the  sky  in  silent  imprecation  of 
Heaven. 

The  people  dropped  aside  in  horror,  and  their  flesh  crawled 
over  them.  ''  Lord  ha'  massy  ! "  they  cried  again,  and  Kerry, 
who  was  blind  and  could  not  see  the  Deemster,  covered  her 
ears  that  she  might  not  hear  him. 

And  from  where  he  knelt  the  Bishop,  who  had  not  spoken 
until  now,  said,  with  an  awful  emphasis,  "  Brother,  the  Lord 
of  heaven  looks  down  on  us." 

But  the  Deemster,  recovering  himself,  laughed  in  scorn  of 
his  own  weakness,  no  less  than  of  the  Bishop's  reproof.  He 
picked  up  the  walking-cane  that  he  had  dropped,  slapped 
his  leg  with  it,  ordered  the  two  fishermen  to  shoulder  their 
burden  again  and  take  it  to  Ballamona,  and  sent  straightway 
for  the  coroner  and  the  joiner:  ''For,"  said  he,  "my  son 
having  come  out  of  the  sea,  must  be  buried  tliis  same  day." 


CHAPTER  XXVn 

HOW   THE    NEWS    CAME    TO    THE    BISHOP 

The  Deemster  swung  aside  and  went  off,  followed  by  Jarvis 
Kerruish.  Then  the  two  fishermen  took  up  their  dread 
burden  and  set  their  faces  towards  Ballamona.  In  a  blind 
agony  of  uncertainty  the  Bishop  went  into  his  house.  His 
mind  was  confused ;  he  sat  and  did  his  best  to  compose  him- 
self. The  thing  that  had  happened  perplexed  him  cruelly. 
He  tried  to  think  it  out,  but  found  it  impossible  to  analyse 
his  unlinked  ideas.  His  faculties  were  benumbed,  and  not 
even  pain,  the  pain  of  Ewan's  loss,  could  yet  penetrate  the 
U  201 


THE   DEEMSTER 

dead  blank  that  lay  between  him  and  a  full  consciousness  of 
the  awful  event.  He  shed  no  tears,  and  not  a  sigh  broke 
from  him.  Silent  he  sat,  with  an  expression  of  suffering  that 
might  have  been  frozen  in  his  stony  eyes  and  on  his  whiten- 
ing lips,  so  rigid  was  it,  and  as  if  the  power  of  life  had  ebbed 
away  like  the  last  ebb  of  an  exhausted  tide. 

Then  the  people  from  without  began  to  crowd  in  upon  him 
where  he  sat  in  his  library.  They  were  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement,  and  all  reserve  and  ceremony  were  broken  down. 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  each  his  conjecture  to  oifer.  One 
told  what  the  long-shore  shrimper  had  said  of  finding  the 
body  near  the  fishing-ground  known  as  the  Mooragh.  Another 
had  his  opinion  as  to  how  the  body  had  sailed  ashore  instead 
of  sinking.  A  third  fumbled  his  cap  and  said,  "I  take 
sorrow  to  see  you  in  such  trouble,  my  lord,  and  wouldn't 
bring  bad  newses  if  I  could  give  myself  lave  to  bring  good 
newses  instead,  but  I'll  go  bail  there's  been  bad  work  goin', 
and  foul  play,  as  they're  sayin',  and  I  wouldn't  trust  but 
Mastha  Dan — I'm  sayin'  I  wouldn't  trust  but  Mastha  Dan 
could  tell  us  something " 

The  Bishop  cut  short  the  man's  garrulity  with  a  slight 
gesture,  and  one  by  one  the  people  went  out.  He  had 
listened  to  them  in  silence  and  with  a  face  of  saintly  suffer- 
ing, scarcely  hearing  what  they  had  said.  ''I  will  await 
events,"  he  thought,  "and  trust  in  God."  But  a  great  fear 
was  laying  hold  of  him,  and  he  had  to  gird  up  his  heart  to 
conquer  it.  "I  will  trust  in  God,"  he  told  himself  a  sccie 
of  times,  and  in  his  faith  in  the  goodness  of  his  God  he  tried 
to  be  calm  and  brave.  But  one  after  another  his  people 
came  back  and  back  and  back  with  new  and  still  newer 
facts.  At  every  fresh  blow  from  damning  circumstances  his 
thin  lips  trembled,  his  nervous  fingers  ran  through  his  flowing 
white  hair,  and  his  deep  eyes  filled  without  moving. 

And  after  the  first  tempest  of  his  own  sorrow  for  the  loss 
of  Ewan,  he  thought  of  Dan,  and  of  Dan's  sure  grief  He 
remembered  the  love  of  Ewan  for  Dan,  and  the  love  of  Dan 
for  Ewan.  He  recalled  many  instances  of  that  beautiful 
affection,  and  in  the  quickening  flow  of  the  light  of  that  love 
half  the  follies  of  his  wayward  son  sank  out  of  sight.  Dan 
must  be  told  what  had  occurred,  and  if  none  had  told  him 
already,  it  was  best  that  it  should  be  broken  to  him  from  lips 
that  loved  him. 

202 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  THE  BISHOP 

Thus  it  was  that  this  brave  and  long-harassed  man,  trying 
to  think  ill  of  his  own  harshness,  that  looked  so  impotent 
and  so  childish  now,  remembering  no  longer  his  vow  never 
to  set  eyes  on  the  face  of  his  son  or  hold  speech  with  him 
again,  sent  a  messenger  to  old  Ballamona  to  ask  for  Dan, 
and  to  bring  him  to  Bishop's  Court  without  delay. 

Half  an  hour  later,  at  the  sound  of  a  knock  at  his  door, 
the  Bishop,  thinking  it  was  Dan  himself,  stood  up  to  his 
stately  height,  and  tried  to  hide  his  agitation,  and  answered 
in  an  unsteady  voice,  that  not  all  the  resolution  of  his  brave 
heart  could  subdue  to  calmness.  But  it  was  the  messenger, 
and  not  Dan,  and  he  had  returned  to  say  that  Mastha  Dan  had 
not  been  home  since  yesterday,  and  that  when  Mastha  Ewan 
was  last  seen  at  home  he  had  asked  for  Mastha  Dan,  and,  not 
finding  him,  had  gone  down  to  the  Lockjaw  Creek  to  seek  him. 

''  When  was  that }  "  the  Bishop  asked. 

''The  ould  body  at  the  house  said  it  might  be  a  piece 
after  three  o'clock  yesterday  evening,"  said  the  man. 

Beneath  the  cold  quietness  of  the  regard  with  which  the 
Bishop  dismissed  his  messenger,  a  keener  eye  than  his  might 
have  noted  a  fearful  tumult.  The  Bishop's  hand  grew  cold 
and  trembled.  At  the  next  instant  he  had  become  conscious 
of  his  agitation,  and  begun  to  reproach  himself  for  his  want 
of  faith.  "  I  will  trust  in  God  and  await  events,"  he  told 
himself  again.  "  No,  I  will  not  speak  ;  I  will  maintain  silence. 
Yes,  I  will  await  the  turn  of  events,  and  trust  in  the  good 
Father  of  all." 

Then  there  came  another  knock  at  his  door.  "  Surely  it 
is  Dan  at  length ;  his  old  housekeeper  has  sent  him  on,"  he 
thought.     "  Come  in,"  he  called  in  a  voice  that  shook. 

It  was  Hommy-beg.  The  Deemster  had  sent  him  across 
with  a  message. 

"  And  what  is  it }  "  the  Bishop  asked,  speaking  at  the  deaf 
man's  ear. 

Hommy-beg  scratched  his  tousled  head  and  made  no 
answer  at  first,  and  the  Bishop  repeated  the  question. 

"We're  all  taking  sorrow  for  you,  my  lord,"  said  Hommy, 
and  then  he  stopped. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  the  Bishop  repeated. 

"  And  right  sorry  I  am  to  bring  his  message." 

The  Bishop's  pale  face  took  an  ashy  grey,  but  his  manner 
was  still  calm. 

203 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"What  did  the  Deemster  send  you  to  say,  Hommy?'* 

"  The  Dempster — bad  sess  to  liim,  and  no  disrespec' — he 
sent  me  to  tell  you  that  they're  after  stripping  the  canvas  off, 
and,  behould  ye,  it's  an  ould  sail,  and  they're  knowing  it  by  its 
number,  and  what  fishing-boat  it  came  out  of,  and  all  to  that." 

*' Where  did  the  sailcloth  come  from?"  asked  the  Bishop, 
and  his  deep  eyes  were  fixed  on  Hommy. 

"  It's  an  ould — well,  the  fact  is — to  tell  you  not  a  word  of 
a  lie — aw,  my  lord,  what  matter — what  if  it  is '* 

"Where.'*"  said  the  Bishop  calmly,  though  his  lips  whit- 
ened and  quivered. 

"It's  an  old  drift  yawlsail  of  the  Ben-my  Chree.  Aw,  yes, 
yes,  sarten  sure,  and  sorry  I  am  to  bring  bad  newses." 

Hommy-beg  went  out,  and  the  Bishop  stood  for  some 
minutes  in  the  thraldom  of  fear.  He  had  been  smitten  hard 
by  other  facts,  but  this  latest  fact  seemed  for  the  moment  to 
overthrow  his  great  calm  faith  in  God's  power  to  bring  out 
all  things  for  the  best.  He  wrestled  with  it  long  and  hard. 
He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  it  meant  nothing.  That 
Ewan  was  dead  was  certain.  That  he  came  by  his  death 
through  foul  play  seemed  no  less  sure  and  terrible.  But  that 
his  body  had  been  wrapped  in  sailcloth  once  belonging  to 
Dan's  fishing-boat  was  no  sufficient  ground  for  the  terrible 
accusation  that  was  taking  shape  in  other  minds.  Could  he 
accept  the  idea  }  Ah  !  no,  no,  no.  To  do  so  would  be  to  fly 
in  the  face  of  all  sound  reason,  all  fatherly  love,  and  all  trust 
in  the  good  Father  above.  Though  the  sailcloth  came  from 
the  Ben-my-Chree,  the  fact  said  nothing  of  where  the  body 
came  from.  And  even  though  it  were  certain  that  the 
body  must  have  been  dropped  into  the  sea  from  the  fishing- 
boat  that  belonged  to  Dan,  it  would  still  require  proof  that 
Dan  himself  was  aboard  of  her. 

With  such  poor  shifts  the  Bishop  bore  down  the  cruel  facts 
as  one  after  one  they  beat  upon  his  brain.  He  tried  to  feel 
shame  of  his  own  shame,  and  to  think  hard  of  his  own  hard 
thoughts.  "  Yes,  I  will  trust  in  God,"  he  told  himself  afresh ; 
"  I  will  await  events,  and  trust  in  the  good  Father  of  all 
mercies."  But  where  was  Dan  }  The  Bishop  had  made  uj) 
his  mind  to  send  messengers  to  skirr  the  island  round  in 
search  of  his  son,  when  suddenly  there  came  a  great  noise  as 
of  many  persons  talking  eagerly,  and  drawing  hurriedly  neai 
and  nearer. 

204 


HOW  THE   NEWS   CAME   TO   THE   BISHOP 

A  minute  afterwards  his  library  door  was  opened  again 
without  reserve  or  ceremony,  and  tliere  came  trooping  into 
the  room  a  mixed  throng  of  the  village  folk.  Little  Jabez 
Gawne  was  at  their  head  with  a  coat  and  a  hat  held  in  his 
hands  before  him. 

Cold  as  the  day  was,  the  people  looked  hot  and  full  of 
puzzled  eagerness,  and  their  smoking  breath  came  in  long 
jets  into  the  quiet  room. 

"  My  lord,  look  what  we've  found  on  the  top  of  Orrisdel," 
said  Jabez,  and  he  stretched  out  the  coat,  while  one  of  the 
men  behind  him  relieved  him  of  the  beaver. 

The  coat  was  a  long  black-cloth  coat,  with  lappets  and  tails 
and  wristbands  turned  over. 

The  Bishop  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  the  coat  of  a 
clergyman. 

"Leave  it  to  me  to  know  this  coat,  my  lord,  for  it  was 
myself  that  made  it,"  said  Jabez. 

The  Bishop's  brain  turned  giddy,  and  the  perspiration  started 
from  his  temples,  but  his  dignity  and  his  largeness  did  not 
desert  him. 

"  Is  it  my  poor  Ewan's  coat  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  take  it,  but  his  tone  was  one  of  almost  hopeless 
misery  and  not  of  inquiry. 

"  That's  true,  my  lord,"  said  Jabez,  and  thereupon  the  little 
tailor  started  an  elaborate  series  of  identifications,  based 
chiefly  on  points  of  superior  cut  and  workmanship.  But  the 
Bishop  cut  the  tailor  short  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

''  You  found  it  on  Orrisdale  Head  ?  "  asked  the  Bishop. 

And  one  of  the  men  behind  pushed  his  head  between  the 
shoulders  of  those  who  were  before  him  and  said — 

"Aw,  yes,  my  lord,  not  twenty  yards  from  the  cliff,  and  I 
found  something  else  beside  of  it." 

Just  then  there  was  a  further  noise  in  the  passage  outside 
the  library,  and  a  voice  saying — 

"  Gerr  out  of  the  way,  you  old  loblollyboys,  bringing  bad 
rewses  still,  and  glad  of  them,  too." 

It  was  Hommy-beg  returned  to  Bishop's  Court  with  yet 
another  message,  but  it  was  a  message  of  his  own,  and  not  of 
the  Deemster's.  He  pushed  his  way  through  the  throng  until 
he  came  face  to  face  with  the  Bishop,  and  then  he  said — 

"The  Dempster  is  afther  having  the  doctor  down  from 
Ramsay,  and  the  big  man  is  sayin  the  neck  was  broken,  and 

205 


THE  DEEMSTER 

it  was  a  fall  that  killed  the  young  pazon,  and  nothing  worse, 
at  all  at  all." 

The  large  sad  eyes  of  the  Bishop  seemed  to  shine  without 
moving  as  Hommy  spoke,  but  in  an  instant  the  man  who  had 
spoken  before  thrust  his  word  in  again,  and  then  the  Bishop's 
face  grew  darker  than  ever  with  settled  gloom. 

"  It  was  myself  that  found  the  coat  and  hat,  my  lord  ;  and 
a  piece  nearer  the  cliff  I  found  this,  and  this ;  and  then,  down 
the  brew  itself — maybe  a  matter  of  ten  feet  down — I  saw 
this  other  one  sticking  in  a  green  corry  of  grass  and  ling,  and 
over  I  went,  hand-under-hand,  and  brought  it  up." 

While  he  spoke  the  man  struggled  to  the  front,  and  held 
out  in  one  hand  a  belt,  or  what  seemed  to  be  two  belts 
buckled  together  and  cut  across  as  with  a  knife,  and  in  the 
other  hand  two  daggers. 

A  great  awe  fell  upon  every  one  at  sight  of  the  weapons. 
The  Bishop's  face  still  showed  a  quiet  grandeur,  but  his 
breathing  was  laboured  and  harassed. 

"  Give  them  to  me,"  he  said,  with  an  impressive  calmness, 
and  the  man  put  the  belts  and  daggers  into  the  Bishop's 
hands.  He  looked  at  them  attentively,  and  saw  that  one  of 
the  buckles  was  of  silver,  while  the  other  was  of  steel. 

"  Has  any  one  recognised  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

A  dozen  voices  answered  at  once  that  they  were  the  belts 
of  the  newly-banded  militia. 

At  the  same  instant  the  Bishop's  eye  was  arrested  by  some 
scratches  on  the  back  of  the  silver  buckle.  He  fixed  his 
spectacles  to  examine  the  marks  more  closely.  When  he 
had  done  so  he  breathed  with  gasps  of  agony,  and  all  the 
cheer  of  life  seemed  in  one  instant  to  die  out  of  his  face. 
His  nerveless  fingers  dropped  the  belts  and  daggers  on  to 
the  table,  and  the  silver  and  the  steel  clinked  as  they  fell. 

There  had  been  a  dead  silence  in  the  room  for  some 
moments,  and  then  with  a  laboured  tranquillity  the  Bishop 
said,  "  That  will  do ; "  and  stood  mute  and  motionless  while 
the  people  shambled  out,  leaving  their  dread  treasures  behind 
them. 

To  his  heart's  core  the  Bishop  was  struck  with  an  icy  chill. 
He  tried  to  link  together  the  terrible  ideas  that  had  smitten 
his  brain,  but  his  mind  wandered  and  slipped  away.  Ewan 
was  last  seen  going  towards  the  creek  ;  he  was  dead  ;  he  had 
been  killed  by  a  fall :  his  body  had  come  ashore  in  an  old 

206 


HOW  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  THE  BISHOP 

sail  of  the  Ben-mi/-Chree ;  his  coat  and  hat  had  been  picked 
up  on  the  top  of  Orrisdale  Head,  and  beside  them  lay  two 
weapons  and  two  belts,  whereof  one  had  belonged  to  Dan, 
w^hose  name  was  scratched  upon  it. 

In  the  cruel  coil  of  circumstance  that  was  every  moment 
tightening  about  him  the  Bishop's  great  calm  faith  in  the 
goodness  of  his  Maker  seemed  to  be  benumbed.  "  Oh,  my 
son,  my  son!"  he  cried  when  he  was  left  alone.  '^ Would  to 
God  I  had  died  before  I  saw  this  day!  Oh,  my  son,  my  son!" 
But  after  a  time  he  regained  his  self-control,  and  said  to  him- 
self again,  "I  will  trust  in  God;  He  will  make  the  dark  places 
plain."  Then  he  broke  into  short,  fitful  prayers,  as  if  to  drive 
away  by  the  warmth  of  the  spirit  the  chill  that  was  waiting  in 
readiness  to  freeze  his  faith — "  Make  haste  unto  me,  O  God ! 
Hide  not  Thy  face  from  Thy  sei*vant,  for  I  am  in  trouble." 

The  short  winter's  day  had  dragged  on  heavily,  but  the  arms 
of  darkness  were  now  closing  round  it.  The  Bishop  put  on 
his  cloak  and  hat  and  set  off  for  Ballamona.  In  length  of  days 
he  was  but  little  past  his  prime,  but  the  dark  sorrow  of  many 
years  had  drained  his  best  strength,  and  he  tottered  on  the 
way.  Only  his  strong  faith  that  God  would  remember  His 
servant  in  the  hour  of  trouble  gave  power  to  his  trembling 
limbs. 

And  as  he  walked  he  began  to  reproach  himself  for  the  mis- 
trust whereby  he  had  been  so  sorely  shaken.  This  comforted 
him  somewhat,  and  he  stepped  out  more  boldly.  He  was 
telling  himself  that,  perplexing  though  the  facts  might  be, 
they  were  yet  so  inconclusive  as  to  prove  nothing  except  that 
Ewan  was  dead,  when  all  at  once  he  became  conscious  that  in 
the  road  ahead  of  him,  grouped  about  the  gate  of  Ballamona, 
were  a  company  of  women  and  children,  all  agitated  and  some 
weeping,  with  the  coroner  in  their  midst,  questioning  them. 

The  coroner  was  Quayle  the  Gyke,  the  same  who  would 
have  been  left  penniless  by  his  father  but  for  the  Bishop's 
intervention. 

"  And  when  did  your  husband  go  out  to  sea  ?  "  the  coroner 
asked. 

"  At  floodtide  yesterday,"  answered  one  of  the  women ; 
"and  my  man,  he  said  to  me,  'Liza,'  he  said,  'get  me  a  bite 
of  priddhas  and  salt  hen-in's  for  supper,'  he  said ;  '  we'll  be 
back  for  twelve,'  he  said ;  but  never  a  sight  of  him  yet,  and 
me  up  all  night  till  daylight." 

207 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  But  they've  been  in  and  gone  out  to  sea  again,**  said  an- 
other of  the  women. 

"How  d'ye  know  that.  Mother  Quilleash?'*  asked  the 
coroner. 

"  Because  I've  been  taking  a  sheu  round  to  the  creek,  and 
there's  a  basket  of  skate  and  cod  in  the  shed/'  the  woman 
answered. 

At  that  the  Bishop  drew  up  at  the  gate,  and  the  coroner 
explained  to  him  the  trouble  of  the  women  and  children. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Corkell }  "  the  Bishop  asked  of  a  woman 
near  him. 

"  Aw,  yes,  my  lord.** 

"  And  you,  too,  Mrs.  Teare  .'*  ** 

The  woman  curtsied ;  the  Bishop  named  them  one  by  one, 
and  stroked  the  bare  head  of  the  little  girl  who  was  clinging 
to  her  mother's  cloak  and  weeping. 

"  Then  it's  the  Beii-my-Chree  that  has  been  missing  since 
yesterday  at  high-water  }  "  the  Bishop  said,  in  a  sort  of  hushed 
whisper. 

"  Yes,  sure,  my  lord.** 

At  that  the  Bishop  turned  suddenly  aside,  without  a  word 
more,  opened  the  gate,  and  walked  up  the  path.  "  Oh,  my 
son,  my  son,"  he  cried  in  his  bleeding  heart,  "  how  have  you 
shortened  my  days  !  How  have  you  clothed  me  with  shame  ! 
Oh,  my  son,  my  son !  " 

Before  Ballamona  an  open  cart  was  standing,  with  the  tail- 
board down,  and  the  horse  was  pawing  the  gravel  which  had 
once — on  a  far  different  occasion — been  strewn  with  the 
"blithe-bread."  The  door  of  the  house  stood  ajar,  and  a  jet 
of  light  from  within  fell  on  the  restless  horse  without.  The 
Bishop  entered  the  house,  and  found  all  in  readiness  for  the 
hurried  night  burial.  On  chairs  that  were  ranged  back  to 
back  a  rough  oak  coffin,  like  an  oblong  box,  was  resting,  and 
from  the  rafter  of  the  ceiling  immediately  over  it  a  small  oil 
lamp  was  suspended.  On  either  side  of  the  hall  were  three 
or  four  men  holding  brands  and  leathern  lanterns,  ready  for 
lighting.  The  Deemster  was  coming  and  going  from  his  own 
room  beyond,  attended  in  bustling  eagerness  by  Jarvis 
Kerruish.  Near  the  coffin  stood  the  vicar  of  the  parish,  father 
of  the  dead  man's  dead  wife,  and  in  the  opening  of  a  door 
that  went  out  from  the  hall  Mona  stood  weeping  with  the 
dead  man's  child  in  her  arms. 

208 


HOW  THE   NEWS   CAME  TO   THE   BISHOP 

And  even  as  it  is  only  in  the  night  that  the  brightest  stars 
may  truly  be  seen,  so  in  the  night  of  all  this  calamity  the  star 
of  the  Bishop's  faith  shone  out  clearly  again,  and  his  vague 
misgivings  fell  away.  He  stepped  up  to  Mona,  whose  dim 
eyes  were  now  fixed  on  his  face  in  sadness  of  sympathy,  and 
with  his  dry  lips  he  touched  her  forehead. 

Then,  in  the  depth  of  his  own  sorrow  and  the  breadth  of 
shadow  that  lay  upon  him,  he  looked  down  at  the  little  one 
in  Mona's  arms,  where  it  leapt  and  cooed  and  beat  its  arms 
on  the  air  in  a  strange  wild  joy  at  this  gay  spectacle  of  its 
father  s  funeral,  and  his  eyes  filled  for  what  the  course  of  its 
life  would  be. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  Deemster  was  conscious  of  the  Bishop's 
presence  in  the  house  he  called  on  the  mourners  to  make  ready, 
and  then  six  men  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  coffin. 

"  Thorkell,"  said  the  Bishop  calmly,  and  the  bearers  paused 
while  he  spoke,  "  this  haste  to  put  away  the  body  of  our  dear 
Ewan  is  unseemly,  because  it  is  unnecessary." 

The  Deemster  made  no  other  answer  than  a  spluttered  ex- 
pression of  contempt,  and  the  Bishop  spoke  again. 

"  You  are  aware  that  there  is  no  canon  of  the  Church  re- 
quiring it,  and  no  law  of  State  demanding  it.  That  a  body 
from  the  sea  shall  be  buried  within  the  day  it  has  washed 
ashore  is  no  more  than  a  custom." 

"  Then  custom  shall  be  indulged  with  custom,"  said  Thorkell 
decisively. 

"  Not  for  fifty  years  has  it  been  observed,"  continued  the 
Bishop ;  "  and  here  it  is  an  outrage  on  reason  and  on  the 
respect  we  owe  to  our  dead." 

At  this  the  Deemster  said :  "  The  body  is  mine,  and  I  will 
do  as  I  please  with  it." 

Even  the  six  carriers,  with  their  hands  on  the  coffin,  caught 
their  breath  at  these  words ;  but  the  Bishop  answered  without 
anger  :  "  And  the  graveyard  is  mine,  in  charge  for  the  Church 
and  God's  people,  and  if  I  do  not  forbid  the  burial,  it  is 
because  I  would  have  no  wrangling  over  the  grave  of  my 
dear  boy." 

The  Deemster  spat  on  the  floor  and  called  on  the  carriers 
to  take  up  their  burden.  Then  the  six  men  lifted  the  coffin 
from  the  chairs  and  put  it  into  the  cart  at  the  door.  The 
other  mourners  went  out  on  to  the  gravel,  and  such  of  them 
as  carried  torches  and  lanterns  lighted  them  there.     The 

209 


THE  DEEMSTER 

Old  Hundredth  was  then  sung,  and  when  its  last  notes  had 
died  on  the  night  air  the  springless  cart  went  jolting  down 
the  path.  Behind  it  the  mourners  ranged  themselves  two 
abreast,  with  the  Deemster  walking  alone  after  the  cart,  and 
the  Bishop  last  of  all. 

Mona  stood  a  moment  at  the  open  door  in  the  hall  that 
was  now  empty  and  desolate  and  silent,  save  for  the  babblings 
of  the  child  in  her  arms.  She  saw  the  procession  pass 
through  the  gate  into  the  road.  After  that  she  went  into 
the  house,  drew  aside  the  curtain  of  her  window,  and  watched 
the  moving  lights  until  they  stopped,  and  then  she  knew  that 
they  were  gathered  about  an  open  grave,  and  tliat  half  of  all 
that  had  been  very  dear  to  her  in  this  weary  world  was  gone 
from  it  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXYIII 

THE    CHILD    GHOST    IN    THE    HOUSE 

After  the  coroner,  Quayle  the  Gyke,  had  gone  through  one 
part  of  his  dual  functions  at  Ballamona,  a,nd  thereby  dis- 
covered that  the  body  of  Ewan  had  been  wrapped  in  a  sail- 
cloth of  the  Ben-my-Chrce,  he  set  out  on  the  other  part  of  his 
duty,  to  find  the  berth  of  the  fishing-boat,  and,  if  need  be, 
to  arrest  the  crew.  He  was  in  the  act  of  leaving  Ballamona 
when,  at  the  gate  of  the  high-road,  he  came  upon  the  women 
and  children  of  the  families  of  the  crew  he  was  in  search  of, 
and  there,  at  the  moment  when  the  Bishop  arrived  for  the 
funeral,  he  heard  that  the  men  had  been  at  sea  since  the 
middle  of  the  previous  day.  Confirmed  in  his  suspicions,  but 
concealing  them,  he  returned  to  the  village  with  the  terrified 
women,  and  on  the  way  he  made  his  own  sinister  efforts  to 
comfort  them  when  they  mourned  as  if  their  husbands  had 
been  lost.  "  Aw,  no,  no,  no,  never  fear ;  we'll  see  them  again 
soon  enough,  I'll  go  bail,"  he  said,  and  in  their  guileless 
blindness  the  women  were  nothing  loath  to  take  cheer  from 
the  fellow's  dubious  smile. 

His  confidence  was  not  misplaced,  for  hardly  had  he  got 
back  to  the  village,  and  stepped  into  the  houses  one  after 
one,  making  his  own  covert  investigations  while  he  saiid- 

210 


THE   CHILD   GHOST   IN   THE   HOUSE 

wiched  his  shrewd  questions  with  solace,  when  the  fishermen 
themselves,  old  Quilleash,  Crennell,  Teare,  and  Corkell,  and 
the  lad  Davy  Fayle,  came  tramping  up  the  street.  Then 
there  was  wild  joy  among  the  children,  who  clung  to  the 
men's  legs,  and  some  sharp  nagging  among  the  women,  who 
were  by  wifely  duty  bound  to  conceal  their  satisfaction  under 
a  proper  appearance  of  wrath.  '^And  what  for  had  they 
been  away  all  night.'*"  and  "Didn't  they  take  shame  at 
treating  a  woman  like  dirt?"  and  "Just  like  a  man,  just, 
not  caring  a  ha'p'orth,  and  a  woman  up  all  night,  and  taking 
notions  about  drowning,  and  more  fool  for  it." 

And  when  at  length  there  came  a  cessation  of  such  ques- 
tions, and  the  fishermen  sat  down  with  an  awkward  silence, 
or  grunted  something  in  an  evasive  way  about  "  Women 
preaching  mortal,"  and  "Never  no  reason  in  them,"  then  the 
coroner  began  his  more  searching  inquiries.  When  did  they 
run  in  with  the  cod  and  ling  that  was  found  lying  in  the 
tent .''  W^as  there  a  real  good  "  strike "  on  that  they  went 
out  again  at  half-flood  last  night  ?  Doing  much  outside  ? 
No  }  He  wouldn't  trust  but  they  were  lying  off  the  Mooragh, 
eh  ?  Yes,  you  say  .'*  Coorse,  coorse.  And  good  ground, 
too.  And  where  was  the  capt'n }  Out  with  them }  He 
thought  so. 

Everything  the  coroner  asked  save  the  one  thing  on  which 
his  mind  was  set,  but  at  mention  of  the  Mooragh  the  women 
forgot  their  own  trouble  in  the  greater  trouble  that  was  over 
the  parish,  and  blurted  out  with  many  an  expletive  the  story 
of  the  coming  to  shore  of  the  body  of  Ewan.  And  hadn't 
they  heard  the  jeel  ?  Aw,  shocking,  shocking !  And  the 
young  pazon  had  sailed  in  their  boat,  so  he  had  !  Aw, 
ter'ble,  ter'ble  ! 

The  coroner  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  men's  faces,  and 
marked  their  confusion  with  content.  They  on  their  part 
tried  all  their  powers  of  dissembling.  First  came  a  fine  show 
of  ferocity.  Where  were  their  priddhas  and  herrings  ?  Bad 
sess  to  the  women,  the  idle  craythurs,  did  they  think  a  man 
didn't  want  never  a  taste  of  nothin'  comin'  in  off  the  say, 
afther  workin'  for  them  day  and  night  same  as  hay  then 
naygroes,  and  no  thanks  for  it  ? 

It  would  not  do,  and  the  men  themselves  were  the  first 
to  be  conscious  that  they  could  not  strike  fire.  One  after 
another  slunk  out  of  his  house  until  they  were  all  five  on  the 

211 


THE   DEEMSTER 

street  in  a  group,  holding  their  heads  together  and  mutter- 
ing. And  when  at  length  the  coroner  came  out  of  old 
Quilleash's  house,  and  leaned  against  the  trammon  at  the 
porch,  and  looked  towards  them  in  the  darkness,  but  said 
not  a  word,  their  self-possession  left  them  on  the  instant, 
and  straightway  they  took  to  their  heels. 

"  Let's  away  at  a  slant  over  the  Head  and  give  warning  to 
Mastha  Dan,"  they  whispered  ;  and  this  was  the  excuse  they 
made  to  themselves  for  their  flight,  just  to  preserve  a  little 
ray  of  self-respect. 

But  the  coroner  understood  them,  and  he  set  his  face  back 
towards  the  churchyard,  knowing  that  the  Deemster  would 
be  there  by  that  time. 

The  Bishop  had  gone  through  the  ceremony  at  the  grave- 
side with  composure,  though  his  voice  when  he  spoke  was 
full  of  tears,  and  the  hair  of  his  uncovered  head  seemed  to 
have  passed  from  iron-grey  to  white.  His  grand  calm  face 
was  steadfast,  and  his  prayer  was  of  faith  and  hope.  Only 
beneath  this  white  quiet  as  of  a  glacier  the  red  riot  of  a  great 
sorrow  was  rife  within  him. 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  in  its  fulness  that — undis- 
turbed in  that  solemn  hour  by  coarser  fears — he  realised  the 
depth  of  his  grief  for  the  loss  of  Ewan.  That  saintly  soul 
came  back  to  his  memory  in  its  beauty  and  tenderness  alone, 
and  its  heat  and  uncontrollable  unreason  were  forgotten. 
When  he  touched  on  the  mystery  of  Ewan's  death,  his  large 
wan  face  quivered  slightly  and  he  paused ;  but  when  he 
spoke  of  the  hope  of  an  everlasting  reunion,  and  how  all  that 
was  dark  would  be  made  plain  and  the  Judge  of  all  the 
earth  would  do  right,  his  voice  grew  bold  as  with  a  surety  of 
a  brave  resignation. 

The  Deemster  listened  to  the  short  night-service  with 
alternate  restlessness — tramping  to  and  fro  by  the  side  of  the 
grave — and  cold  self-possession,  and  with  a  constant  hardness 
and  bitterness  of  mind,  breaking  out  sometimes  into  a  light 
trill  of  laughter,  or  again  into  a  hoarse  gurgle,  as  if  in  scorn 
of  the  Bishop's  misplaced  confidence.  But  the  crowds  that 
were  gathered  around  held  their  breath  in  awe  of  the 
mystery,  and  when  they  sang  it  was  with  such  an  expression 
of  emotion  and  fear  that  no  man  knew  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice. 

More  than  once  the  Deemster  stopped  in  his  uneasy  per- 
212 


THE   CHILD   GHOST   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ambulations,  and  cried  "  What's  that  ? "  as  if  arrested  by 
sounds  that  did  not  break  on  the  ears  of  others.  But  nothing 
occurred  to  disturb  the  ceremony  until  it  had  reached  the 
point  of  its  close,  and  while  the  Bishop  was  pronouncing  a 
benediction  the  company  was  suddenly  thrown  into  a  great 
tumult. 

It  was  then  that  t)ie  coroner  arrived,  panting  after  a  long 
run.  He  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  burst  in  at 
the  graveside  between  the  Bishop  and  the  Deemster. 

'*^ They've  come  ashore,"  he  said  eagerly;  "the  boat's  in 
harbour  and  the  men  are  here." 

Twenty  voices  at  once  cried  "  Who  .'^ "  but  the  Deemster 
asked  no  explanation.  "  Take  them,"  he  said,  "  arrest  them ;" 
and  his  voice  was  a  bitter  laugh  and  his  face  in  the  light  of 
the  torches  was  full  of  malice  and  un  charity. 

Jarvis  Kerruish  stepped  out.    "  Where  are  they?"  he  asked. 

"They've  run  across  the  Head  in  the  line  of  the  Cross 
Vein,"  the  coroner  answered;  "but  six  of  us  will  follow  them.'* 

And  without  more  ado  he  twisted  about  and  impressed  the 
five  men  nearest  to  him  into  service  as  constables. 

"  How  many  of  them  are  there  .''"  said  Jarvis  Kerruish. 

"  Five,  sir,"  said  the  coroner,  "  Quilleash,  Teare,  Corkell, 
Crennell,  and  the  lad  Davy." 

"  Then  is  he  not  with  them  ? "  cried  the  Deemster,  in  a 
tone  that  went  to  the  Bishop's  heart  like  iron. 

The  coroner  glanced  uneasily  at  the  Bishop,  and  said,  "  He 
was  with  them,  and  he  is  still  somewhere  about." 

"Then  away  with  you;  arrest  them,  quick,"  the  Deemster 
cried  in  another  tone. 

"  But  what  of  the  warrant,  sir  ?  "  said  the  coroner. 

"  Simpleton !  are  you  waiting  for  that  ? "  the  Deemster 
shouted  with  a  contemptuous  sweep  of  the  hand.  "  Where 
have  you  been,  that  you  don't  know  that  your  own  warrant 
is  enough  ?  Arrest  the  scoundrels,  and  you  shall  have  war- 
rant enough  when  you  come  back." 

But  as  the  six  men  were  pushing  their  way  through  the 
people,  and  leaping  the  cobble  wall  of  the  churchyard,  th*; 
Deemster  picked  from  the  ground  a  piece  of  slate-stone  that 
had  come  up  from  the  vault,  and  scraped  his  initials  upon  it 
with  a  pebble. 

"Take  this  token,  and  go  after  them,"  he  said  to  Jarvis 
Kerruish,  and  instantly  Jarvis  was  following  the  coroner  and 

213 


THE   DEEMSTER 

his  constables  with  the  Deemster's  legal  warranty  for  their 
proceedings. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  the  crowd  that  had  stood 
with  drooping  heads  about  the  Bishop  had  now  broken  up 
in  confusion.  The  Bishop  himself  had  not  spoken  ;  a  shade 
of  bodily  pain  had  passed  over  his  pale  face,  and  a  cold  damp 
had  started  from  his  forehead.  But  hardly  had  the  coroner 
gone,  or  the  people  recovered  from  their  bewilderment, 
when  the  Bishop  lifted  one  hand  to  bespeak  silence,  and 
then  said,  in  a  tone  impossible  to  describe :  "  Can  any  man 
say  of  his  own  knowledge  that  my  son  was  on  the  Ben-my- 
Chree  last  night }  " 

The  Deemster  snorted  contemptuously,  but  none  made 
answer  to  the  Bishop's  question. 

At  that  moment  there  came  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
on  the  road,  aud  immediately  the  old  archdeacon  drew  up. 
He  had  been  preaching  the  Christmas  sermons  at  Peeltown 
that  day,  and  there  he  had  heard  of  the  death  of  his  grand- 
son, and  of  the  suspicions  that  were  in  the  air  concerning  it. 
The  dour  spirit  of  the  disappointed  man  had  never  gone  out 
with  too  much  warmth  to  the  Bishop,  but  had  always  been 
ready  enough  to  cast  contempt  on  the  "  moonstruck  ways  " 
of  the  man  who  had  ^^ usurped"  his  own  place  of  prefer- 
ment ;  and  now,  without  contrition  or  pity,  he  was  ready  to 
strike  his  blow  at  the  stricken  man. 

"I  hear  that  the  Ben-my-Chree  has  put  into  Peel  har- 
bour," he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  he  leaned  across  his  saddle- 
bow, with  his  russet  face  towards  where  the  Bishop  stood. 

"  Well,  well,  well  } "  cried  the  Deemster,  rapping  out  at 
the  same  time  his  oaths  of  impatience  as  fast  as  a  hen  might 
have  pecked. 

''And  that  the  crew  are  not  hkely  to  show  their  faces 
soon,"  the  archdeacon  continued. 

"  Then  you're  wrong,"  said  the  Deemster  imperiously,  "  for 
they've  done  as  much  already.  But  what  about  their  owner  ? 
Was  he  with  them  }  Have  you  seen  him  }  Quick,  let  us  hear 
^^hat  you  have  to  say." 

The  archdeacon  did  not  shift  his  gaze  from  the  Bishop's 
face,  but  he  answered  the  Deemster  nevertheless. 

"Their  owner  was  with  them,"  he  said,  "and  woe  be  to 
him.  I  had  as  lief  that  a  millstone  were  hung  about  my  neck 
as  that  I  stood  before  God  as  the  father  of  that  man." 

214 


THE   CHILD   GHOST   IN   THE   HOUSE 

And  with  such  charity  of  comfort  the  old  archdeacon 
alighted  and  walked  away  with  the  Deemster  at  the  horse's 
head.  The  good  man  had  preached  with  unwonted  fervour 
that  day  from  the  Scripture  which  says,  "  With  what  measure 
ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again." 

In  another  instant  the  Bishop  was  no  longer  the  same  man. 
Conviction  of  Dan's  guilt  had  taken  hold  of  him.  Thus  far  lie 
had  borne  up  against  all  evil  shows,  by  the  strength  of  his 
great  faith  in  his  Maker  to  bring  out  all  things  well.  But  at 
length  that  faith  was  shattered.  When  the  Deemster  and 
the  Archdeacon  went  away  together,  leaving  him  in  the  midst 
of  the  people,  he  stood  there,  while  all  eyes  were  upon  him, 
with  the  stupid  bewildered  look  of  one  who  has  been  dealt 
an  unexpected  and  dreadful  blow.  The  world  itself  was 
crumbling  under  him.  At  that  first  instant  there  was  some- 
thing like  a  ghastly  smile  playing  over  his  pale  face.  Then 
the  truth  came  rolling  over  him.  The  sight  was  terrible  to 
look  upon.  He  tottered  backwards  with  a  low  moan.  Wlien 
his  faith  went  down  his  manhood  went  down  with  it. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  my  son ! "  he  cried  again,  "  how  have  you 
shortened  my  days  !  How  have  you  clothed  me  with  shame  ! 
Oh,  my  son,  my  son  ! " 

But  love  was  uppermost  even  in  that  bitter  hour,  and  the 
good  God  sent  the  stricken  man  the  gift  of  tears.  "  He  is 
dead,  he  is  dead  !"  he  cried  ;  "now  is  my  heart  smitten  and 
withered  like  grass.  Ewan  is  dead.  My  son  is  dead.  Can  it 
be  true  }  Yes,  dead  and  worse  than  dead.  Lord,  Lord,  now  let 
me  eat  ashes  for  bread  and  mingle  my  drink  with  weeping." 

And  so  he  poured  out  his  broken  spirit  in  a  torrent  of  wild 
laments.  The  disgrace  that  had  bent  his  head  heretofore  was 
but  a  dream  to  this  deadly  reality.  "  Oh,  my  son,  my  son  ! 
Would  God  I  had  died  before  I  saw  this  day  ! " 

The  people  stood  by  while  the  unassuageable  grief  shook  the 
Bishop  to  the  soul.  Then  one  of  them — it  was  Thormod  Myle- 
chreest,  the  bastard  son  of  the  rich  man  who  had  left  his 
offspring  to  public  charity — took  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  and 
the  crowd  parted  for  them.  Together  they  passed  out  of  the 
churchyard,  and  out  of  the  hard  glare  of  the  torchlight,  and 
set  off  for  Bishop's  Court.  It  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  see.  How 
the  old  father,  stricken  into  age  by  sorrow  rather  than  years, 
tottered  feebly  on  the  way.  How  low  his  white  head  was  bent, 
as  if  the  darkness  itself  had  eyes  to  peer  into  his  darkened  souL 

215 


THE   DEEMSTER 

And  yet  more  pitiful  was  it  to  see  how  the  old  man's  broken 
spirit,  reft  of  its  great  bulwark,  which  lay  beneath  it  like  an 
idol  that  was  broken,  did  yet  struggle  with  a  vain  effort  to 
glean  comfort  from  its  fallen  faith.  But  every  stray  text  that 
rose  to  his  heart  seemed  to  wound  it  afresh.  "  As  arrows  in 
the  hand  of  a  mighty  man,  so  are  children  of  the  youth.  .  .  . 
They  shall  not  be  ashamed.  .  .  .  Oh,  Absalom,  my  son,  my 
son  !  .  .  .  For  thy  sake  I  have  borne  reproach ;  shame  hath 
covered  my  face.  ...  I  am  poor  and  needy  ;  make  haste  unto 
me,  O  God.  .  .  .  Hide  not  Thy  face  from  Thy  servant,  for  I 
am  in  trouble.  .  .  .  O  God,  Thou  knowest  my  foolishness. 
.  .  .  And  Eli  said.  It  is  the  Lord,  let  Him  do  as  seemeth  Him 
good.  .  .  .  The  waters  have  overwhelmed  me,  the  streams 
have  gone  over  my  soul ;  the  proud  waters  have  gone  over 
my  soul," 

TIius  tottering  feebly  at  the  side  of  Mylechreest  and  lean- 
ing on  his  arm,  the  Bishop  went  his  way,  and  thus  the  ])()or 
dead  soul  of  the  man,  whose  faith  was  gone,  poured  fortli  its 
barren  grief.  The  way  was  long,  but  they  reached  Bisliop's 
Court  at  last,  and  at  sight  of  it  a  sudden  change  seeme  1  to 
come  over  the  Bishop.  He  stopped  and  turned  to  Myle- 
chreest, and  said  with  a  strange  resignation — 

"  I  will  be  quiet.  Ewan  is  dead,  and  Dan  is  dead.  Surely 
I  shall  quiet  myself  as  a  child  that  is  weaned  of  its  mother. 
Yes,  my  soul  is  even  as  a  weaned  child." 

And,  with  the  simple  calmness  of  a  little  child,  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  Mylechreest  to  bid  him  farewell,  and  when  Myle- 
chreest, with  swimming  eyes  and  a  throat  too  full  for  speech, 
bent  over  the  old  man's  hand  and  put  his  lips  to  it,  the  Bishop 
placed  the  other  hand  on  his  head,  as  if  he  had  asked  for  a 
blessing,  and  blessed  him. 

"Good-night,  my  son,"  he  said  simply,  but  Mylechreest 
could  answer  nothing. 

The  Bishop  was  turning  into  his  house  when  the  memory 
that  had  gone  from  him  for  one  instant  of  blessed  respite 
returned,  and  his  sorrow  bled  afresh,  and  he  cried  piteously. 
The  inanimate  old  place  was  in  a  moment  full  of  spectres. 
For  that  night  Bishop's  Court  had  gone  back  ten  full  years, 
and  if  it  was  not  now  musical  with  children's  voices,  the  spirit 
of  one  happy  boy  still  lived  in  it. 

Passing  his  people  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stairs,  where, 
tortured  by  suspense,  bewildered,  distracted,  they  put  their 

216 


THE  CHILD   GHOST   IN   THE   HOUSE 

doubts  and  rumours  together,  the  Bishop  went  up  to  the 
Httle  room  above  the  Hbrary  that  had  once  been  httle 
Danny's  room.  The  door  was  locked,  but  the  key  was  where 
it  had  been  for  many  a  day — though  Dan  in  his  headstrong 
waywardness  had  known  nothing  of  that — it  was  in  the 
Bishop's  pocket.  Inside  the  room  the  muggy  odour  was  of 
a  chamber  long  shut  up.  The  little  bed  was  still  in  the 
corner,  and  its  quilted  counterpane  lay  thick  in  dust.  Dust 
covered  the  walls,  and  the  floor  also,  and  the  table  under  the 
window  was  heavy  with  it.  Shutting  himself  in  this  dusty 
crib,  the  Bishop  drew  from  under  the  bed  a  glass-covered 
case,  and  opened  it,  and  lifted  out  one  by  one  the  things  it 
contained.  They  were  a  child's  playthings — a  whip,  a  glass 
marble,  a  whistle,  an  old  Manx  penny,  a  tomtit's  mossy  nest 
with  three  speckled  blue  eggs  in  it,  some  pearly  shells,  and 
a  bit  of  shrivelled  seaweed.  And  each  poor  relic  as  it  came 
up  awoke  a  new  memory  and  a  new  grief,  and  the  fingers 
trembled  that  held  them.  The  sense  of  a  boy's  sport  and  a 
boy's  high  spirits,  long  dumb  and  dead,  touched  the  old  man 
to  the  quick  within  these  heavy  walls. 

The  Bishop  replaced  the  glass-covered  case,  locked  the 
room,  and  went  down  to  his  library.  But  the  child  ghost 
that  lived  in  that  gaunt  old  house  did  not  keep  to  the  crib 
upstairs.  Into  this  book-clad  room  it  followed  the  Bishop, 
with  blue  eyes  and  laughter  on  the  red  lips;  with  a  hop, 
skip,  and  a  jump,  and  a  pair  of  spectacles  perched  insecurely 
on  the  diminutive  nose. 

Ten  years  had  rolled  back  for  the  broken-hearted  father 
that  night,  and  Dan,  who  was  lost  to  him  in  life,  lived  in  his 
remembrance  only  as  a  beautiful,  bright,  happy,  spirited, 
innocent  child,  that  could  never  grow  older,  but  must  be  a 
child  for  ever. 

The  Bishop  could  endure  the  old  house  no  longer.  It  was 
too  full  of  spectres.  He  would  go  out  and  tramp  the  roads 
the  long  night  through.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
through  snow  or  rain,  under  the  moonlight  or  the  stars,  until 
the  day  dawned,  and  the  pitiless  sun  should  rise  again  over 
the  heedless  sleeping  world. 


15  217 


THE   DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  XXIX. 

BY    bishop's    law    OR    DEEMSTER*S 

The  Bishop  had  gone  into  the  hall  for  his  cloak  and  hat 
when  lie  came  face  to  face  with  the  Deemster,  who  was 
entering  the  house.  At  sight  of  his  brother  his  bewildered 
mind  made  some  feeble  efforts  to  brace  itself  up. 

"  Ah  !  is  it  you,  Thorkell  }  Then  you  have  come  at  last ! 
I  had  given  you  up.  But  I  am  going  out  to-night.  Will 
you  not  come  into  the  library  with  me }  But  perhaps  you 
are  going  somewhere  }  " 

It  was  a  painful  spectacle,  the  strong  brain  of  the  strong 
man  tottering  visibly.  The  Deemster  set  down  his  hat  and 
cane,  and  looked  up  with  a  cold  mute  stare  in  answer  to  his 
brother's  inconsequent  questions.  Then,  without  speaking, 
he  went  into  the  library,  and  the  Bishop  followed  him  with 
a  feeble,  irregular  step,  humming  a  lively  tune — it  was  "  Sally 
in  our  Alley  " — ^and  smiling  a  melancholy,  jaunty,  bankrupt 
smile. 

"  Gilchrist,"  said  the  Deemster  imperiously,  and  he  closed 
the  door  behind  them  as  he  spoke,  "  let  us  put  away  all  pre- 
tence, and  talk  like  men.  We  have  serious  work  before  us, 
I  promise  you." 

By  a  perceptible  spasm  of  will  the  Bishop  seemed  to  re- 
gain command  of  his  faculties,  and  his  countenance,  that  had 
been  mellowed  down  to  most  pitiful  weakness,  grew  on  the 
instant  firm  and  pale. 

"  What  is  it,  Thorkell }  "  he  said  in  a  more  resolute  tone. 

Then  the  Deemster  asked  deliberately,  "What  do  you 
intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  my  son  }  " 

"  What  do  I  mean  to  do }  I .''  Do  you  ask  me  what  I 
intend  to  do  ?  "  said  the  Bishop  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"  I  ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do,"  said  the  Deemster 
firmly.  "  Gilchrist,  let  us  make  no  faces.  You  do  not  need 
that  I  should  tell  you  what  powers  of  jurisdiction  over  felonies 
are  held  by  the  Bishop  of  this  island  as  its  spiritual  baron. 
More  than  once  you  have  reminded  me,  and  none  too  cour- 
teously, of  those  same  powers  when  they  have  served  your 
turn.     They  are  to-day  what  they  were  yesterday,  and  so  f 

218 


BY   BISHOP'S   LAW   OR   DEEMSTER'S 

ask  you  again,  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  the  murderer 
of  my  son  ?  " 

The  Bishop's  breath  seemed  suspended  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  in  broken  accents  he  said  softly,  "  You  ask  me  what  I 
intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  our  Ewan — his  murderer, 
you  say  ?  " 

In  a  cold  and  resolute  tone  the  Deemster  said  again,  "  His 
murderer,"  and  bowed  stiffly. 

The  Bishop's  confusion  seemed  to  overwhelm  him.  "  Is  it 
not  assuming  too  much,  Thorkell?"  he  said,  and  while  his 
fingers  trembled  as  he  unlaced  them  before  him,  the  same 
sad  smile  as  before  passed  across  his  face. 

"Listen,  and  say  whether  it  is  so  or  not,"  said  the 
Deemster,  with  a  manner  of  rigid  impassability.  ''  At  three 
o'clock  yesterday  my  son  left  me  at  my  own  house  with  the 
declared  purpose  of  going  in  search  of  your  son.  With  what 
object.'*  Wait.  At  half-past  three  he  asked  for  your  son  at 
the  house  they  shared  together.  He  was  then  told  that  your 
son  would  be  found  at  the  village.  Before  four  o'clock  he 
inquired  for  him  at  the  village  pothouse,  your  son's  daily  and 
nightly  haunt.  There  he  was  told  that  the  man  he  wanted 
had  been  seen  going  down  towards  the  creek,  the  frequent 
anchorage  of  the  fishing-smack,  the  Ben-my-Chree,  with  which 
he  has  frittered  away  his  time  and  your  money.  As  the 
parish  clock  was  striking  four  he  was  seen  in  the  lane  leading 
to  the  creek,  walking  briskly  down  to  it.  He  was  never 
seen  again." 

"  My  brother,  my  brother,  what  proof  is  there  in  that .'' " 
said  the  Bishop,  with  a  gesture  of  protestation. 

"Listen.  That  creek  under  the  Head  of  Orrisdale  is 
known  to  the  fisherfolk  as  the  Lockjaw.  Do  you  need,  to  be 
told  why }  Because  there  is  only  one  road  out  of  it.  My 
son  went  into  the  creek,  but  he  never  left  it  alive." 

"  How  is  this  known,  Thorkell  }  " 

"  How  }  In  this  way.  Almost  immediately  my  son  had 
gone  from  my  house,  Jarvish  Kerruish  went  after  him,  to 
overtake  him  and  bring  him  back.  Not  knowing  the  course, 
Jarvis  had  to  feel  his  way  and  inquire,  but  he  came  upon  his 
trace  at  last,  and  followed  Ewan  on  the  road  he  had  taken, 
and  reached  the  creek  soon  after  the  parish  clock  struck  five. 
Now,  if  my  son  had  returned  as  he  went,  Jarvis  Kerruish 
must  have  met  him." 

219 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  Patience,  Thorkell,  have  patience,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"  If  Ewan  found  Dan  at  the  Lockjaw  Creek,  why  did  not  the 
young  man  Jarvis  find  both  of  them  there  ?  " 

"  Why?"  the  Deemster  echoed,  "because  the  one  was  dead, 
and  the  other  in  hiding." 

The  Bishop  was  standing  at  that  moment  by  the  table,  ard 
one  hand  was  touching  something  that  lay  upon  it.  A  cry 
that  was  half  a  sigh  and  half  a  suppressed  scream  of  terror 
burst  from  him.  The  Deemster  understood  it  not,  but  set  it 
down  to  the  searching  power  of  his  own  words.  Shuddering 
from  head  to  foot,  the  Bishop  looked  down  at  the  thing  his 
hand  had  touched.  It  was  the  militia  belt.  He  had  left  it 
where  it  had  fallen  from  his  fingers  when  the  men  brought 
it  to  him.  Beside  it,  half  hidden  by  many  books  and  papers, 
the  two  small  daggers  lay. 

Then  a  little  low  cunning  crept  over  the  heart  of  that 
saintly  man,  and  he  glanced  up  into  his  brother's  face  with 
a  dissembled  look,  not  of  inquiry,  but  of  supplication.  The 
Deemster's  face  was  imperious,  and  his  eyes  betrayed  no 
discovery.     He  had  seen  nothing. 

"You  make  me  shudder,  Thorkell,"  the  Bishop  murmured, 
and  while  he  spoke  he  lifted  the  belt  and  daggers  furtively 
amid  a  chaos  of  loose  papers,  and  whipped  them  into  the 
door  of  a  cabinet  that  stood  open. 

His  duplicity  had  succeeded ;  not  even  the  hollow  ring  of 
his  voice  had  awakened  suspicion,  but  he  sat  down  with  a 
crushed  and  abject  mien.  His  manhood  had  gone,  shame 
overwhelmed  him,  and  he  ceased  to  contend. 

"  I  said  there  was  only  one  way  out  of  the  creek,"  said  the 
Deemster,  "but  there  are  two." 

"Ah!" 

"  The  other  way  is  by  the  sea.  My  son  took  that  way,  but 
he  took  it  as  a  dead  man,  and  when  he  came  ashore  he  was 
wrapped  for  sea-burial — by  ignorant  bunglers  who  had  never 
buried  a  body  at  sea  before — in  a  sailcloth  of  the  Ben-my^ 
Chree." 

The  Bishop  groaned  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"  Do  you  ask  for  further  evidence  }  "  said  the  Deemster  in 
a  relentless  voice.  "  If  so,  it  is  at  hand.  Where  was  the  Ben- 
wy-Chree  last  night  .^  It  was  on  the  sea.  Last  night  was 
Christmas  Eve,  a  night  of  twenty  old  Manx  customs.  Where 
were  the  boat's  crew  and  owner  .^     They  were  away  from 

220 


BY   BISHOP'S   LAW   OR  DEEMSTER'S 

their  homes.  To-day  was  Christmas  Day.  Where  were  the 
men  ?  Their  wives  and  children  were  waiting  for  some  of 
them  to  eat  with  them  their  Christmas  dinner  and  drink  their 
Christmas  ale.  But  they  were  not  in  their  houses,  and  no 
one  knew  where  they  were.  Can  circumstances  be  more 
damning  ?  Speak,  and  say.  Don't  wring  your  hands ;  be  a 
man  and  look  me  in  the  face." 

"  Have  mercy,  Thorkell,"  the  Bishop  murmured,  utterly 
prostrate.  But  the  Deemster  went  on  to  lash  him  as  a  brutal 
master  whips  a  broken-winded  horse. 

^'  When  the  Ben-mij-Chree  came  into  harbour  to-night,  what 
was  the  behaviour  of  crew  and  OAvner.'*  Did  they  go  about 
their  business  as  they  are  wont  to  do  when  wind  and  tide 
has  kept  them  too  long  at  sea?  Did  they  show  their  faces 
before  suspicion  as  men  should  who  have  no  fear.^  No. 
They  skulked  away.  They  fled  from  question.  At  this 
moment  they  are  being  pursued." 

The  Bishop  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  And  so  I  ask  you  again,"  resumed  the  Deemster,  "  what 
do  you  intend  to  do  with  the  murderer  of  my  son?" 

"Oh,  Dan,  Dan,  my  boy,  my  boy!"  the  Bishop  sobbed, 
and  for  a  moment  his  grief  mastered  all  other  emotions. 

"  Ah !  see  how  it  is !  You  name  your  son,  and  you  know 
that  he  is  guilty." 

The  Bishop  lifted  up  his  head,  and  his  eyes  flashed.  "  I  do 
not  know  that  my  son  is  guilty,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that  made 
the  Deemster  pause.  But,  speedily  recovering  his  self-com- 
mand, the  Deemster  continued  in  a  tone  of  confidence,  "  Your 
conscience  tells  you  that  it  is  so." 

The  Bishop's  spirit  was  broken  in  a  moment. 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do,  Thorkell  ?  " 

"To  present  your  son  for  murder  in  the  court  of  your 
barony." 

"  Man,  man,  do  you  wish  to  abase  me  ?  "  said  the  Bishop. 
"  Do  you  come  to  drive  me  to  despair  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that 
I  am  bent  to  the  very  earth  with  grief  but  that  you  of  all  men 
should  crush  me  to  the  dust  itself  with  shame  ?  Think  of  it 
— my  son  is  my  only  tie  to  earth,  I  have  none  left  but  him ; 
and,  because  I  am  a  judge  in  the  island  as  well  as  its  poor 
priest,  I  am  to  take  him  and  put  him  to  death." 

Then  his  voice,  which  had  been  faint,  grew  formidable. 

"  What  is  it  you  mean  by  this  cruel  torture  ?  If  my  son  is 
221 


THE   DEEMSTER 

guilty,  must  his  crime  go  unpunished  though  his  father's  hand 
is  not  lifted  against  him  ?  For  what  business  are  you  yourself 
on  this  little  plot  of  earth  ?  You  are  here  to  punish  the  evil- 
doer. It  is  for  you  to  punish  him  if  he  is  guilty.  But  no, 
for  you  to  do  that  would  be  for  you  to  be  merciful,  Mercy 
you  will  not  show  to  him  or  me.  And,  to  make  a  crime  that 
is  terrible  at  the  best,  thrice  shameful  as  well,  you  would 
put  a  father  as  judge  over  his  son.  Man,  man,  have  you  no 
pity  ? — no  bowels  of  compassion  ?  Think  of  it !  My  son  is 
myself,  life  of  my  life.  Can  I  lop  away  my  right  hand  and 
still  keep  all  my  members.'*  Only  think  of  it.  Thorkell, 
Thorkell,  my  brother,  think  of  it.  I  am  a  father,  and  so  are 
you.     Could  you  condemn  to  death  your  own  son  ?  " 

The  sonorous  voice  had  broken  again  to  a  sob  of  supplication. 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  father,"  said  the  Deemster  unmoved,  "  but 
you  are  also  a  priest  and  a  judge.  Your  son  is  guilty  of  a 
crime " 

"  Who  says  he  is  guily  ?  " 

*' Yourself  said  as  much  a  moment  since." 

"  Have  I  said  so  }  What  did  I  say  }  They  had  no  cause 
of  quarrel — Dan  and  Ewan.  They  loved  each  other.  But  I 
cannot  think.  My  head  aches.  I  fear  my  mind  is  weakened 
by  these  terrible  events." 

The  Bishop  pressed  his  forehead  hard  like  a  man  in  bodily 
pain,  but  the  Deemster  showed  no  ruth. 

"It  is  now  for  you  to  put  the  father  aside  and  let  the 
priest-judge  come  forward.  It  is  your  duty  to  God  and  your 
church.  Cast  your  selfish  interests  behind  you  and  quit 
yourself  like  one  to  whom  all  eyes  look  up.  The  Bishop  has 
a  sacred  mission.  Fulfil  it.  You  have  punished  offenders 
against  God's  law  and  the  Church's  rule  beforetime.  Don't 
let  it  be  said  that  the  laws  of  God  and  Church  are  to  pass  by 
the  house  of  their  Bishop." 

"  Pity  !  pity  !  have  pity,"  the  Bishop  murmured. 

"  Set  your  own  house  in  order,  or  with  what  courage  will 
you  ever  again  dare  to  intrude  upon  the  houses  of  your 
people  }  Now  is  your  time  to  show  that  you  can  practise  the 
liard  doctrine  that  you  have  preached.  Send  him  to  the 
scaffold,  yes,  to  the  scaffold " 

The  Bishop  held  up  his  two  hands  and  cried,  "Listen, 
listen  !  What  would  it  avail  you  though  my  son's  life  were 
given  in  forfeit  for  the  life  of  your  son  }     You  never  loved 

222 


BY   BISHOP'S   LAW   OR   DEEMSTER'S 

Ewan.  Ah !  it  is  true,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  you  never  loved 
him.  While  I  shall  have  lost  two  sons  at  a  blow.  Are  you  a 
Christian,  to  thirst  like  this  for  blood  ?  It  is  not  justice  you 
want ;  it  is  vengeance.     But  vengeance  belongs  to  God." 

"Is  he  not  guilty.''"  the  Deemster  answered.  ''And  is  it 
not  your  duty  and  mine  to  punish  the  guilty  .'* " 

But  the  Bishop  went  on  impetuously,  panting  as  he  spoke, 
and  in  a  faint,  broken  tone : — 

"  Then  if  you  should  be  mistaken — if  all  this  that  you  tell 
me  should  be  a  fatal  coincidence  that  my  son  cannot  explain 
away  ?  W^hat  if  I  took  him  and  presented  him,  and  sent  him 
to  the  gallows,  as  you  say,  and  some  day,  when  all  that  is 
now  dark  became  hght,  and  the  truth  stood  revealed,  what  if 
then  I  had  to  say  to  myself  before  God,  '  I  have  taken  the 
life  of  my  son  .'* '  Brother,  is  your  heart  brazed  out  that  you 
can  think  of  it  without  pity  }  " 

The  Bishop  had  dropped  to  his  knees. 

"\  see  that  you  are  a  coward,"  said  the  Deemster  con- 
temptuously. "  And  so  this  is  what  your  religion  comes  to  ! 
I  tell  you  that  the  eyes  of  the  people  of  this  island  are  on 
you.  If  you  take  the  right  course  now,  their  reverence  is 
yours ;  if  the  wrong  one,  it  will  be  the  worst  evil  that  has 
ever  befallen  you  from  your  youth  upwards." 

The  Bishop  cried,  "  Mercy,  mercy !  for  Christ's  sake, 
mercy  !  "  and  he  looked  about  the  room  with  terrified  eyes,  as 
if  he  would  fly  from  it  if  he  could. 

But  the  Deemster's  lash  had  one  still  heavier  blow. 

"  More,  more,"  he  said  ;  "  your  Church  is  on  its  trial  also, 
and  if  you  fail  of  your  duty  now,  the  people  will  rise  and 
sweep  it  away." 

Then  a  great  spasm  of  strength  came  to  the  Bishop,  and 
he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Silence,  sir ! "  he  said,  and  the  Deemster  quailed  visibly 
before  the  heat  and  flame  of  his  voice  and  manner. 

But  the  spasm  was  gone  in  an  instant,  for  his  faith  was 
dead  as  his  soul  was  dead,  and  only  the  galvanic  impulse  of 
the  outraged  thing  remained.  And  truly  his  faith  had  taken 
his  manhood  with  it,  for  he  sat  down  and  sobbed.  In  a  few 
moments  more  the  Deemster  left  him  without  another  word. 
Theirs  had  been  a  terrible  interview,  and  its  mark  remained  to 
the  end  like  a  brand  of  iron  on  the  hearts  of  both  the  brothers. 

The  night  was  dark  but  not  cold,  and  the  roads  were  soft 
223 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  draggy.  Over  the  long  mile  that  divided  Bishop's  Court 
from  Ballamona  the  old  Deemster  walked  home  with  a  mind 
more  at  ease  than  he  had  known  for  a  score  of  years.  '^  It 
was  true  enough,  as  he  said,  that  I  never  loved  Ewan,"  the 
Deemster  thought.  "  But  then  whose  was  the  fault  but  Ewan's 
own  ?  At  every  step  he  was  against  me,  and  if  he  took  the 
side  of  the  Bishop  and  his  waistrel  son,  he  did  it  to  his  own 
confusion.  And  he  had  his  good  parts,  too.  Patient  and  long- 
suffering  like  his  mother,  poor  woman,  dead  and  gone.  A  littl'j 
like  my  old  father  also,  the  simple  soul.  With  fire,  too,  and 
rather  headstrong  at  times.     I  wonder  how  it  all  happened." 

Then,  as  he  trudged  along  through  the  dark  roads,  his  mind 
turned  full  on  Dan.  "  He  must  die,"  he  thought  with  content 
and  a  secret  satisfaction.  "  By  Bishop's  law  or  Deemster's  he 
cannot  fail  but  be  punished  with  death.  And  so  this  is  the 
end !  He  was  t-o  have  his  foot  on  my  neck  some  day.  So 
much  for  the  brave  vaunt  and  prophecy.  And  when  he  is 
dead  my  fate  is  broken.  Tut !  who  talks  of  fate  in  these  days  } 
Idle  chatter  and  balderdash  ! " 

When  the  Deemster  got  to  Ballamona,  he  found  the  coroner, 
Quayle  the  Gyke,  in  the  hall  awaiting  him.  Jarvis  Kerruish 
was  on  the  settle  pushing  off  his  slush-covered  boots  with  a 
boot-jack. 

"  Why,  what  ?     How's  this  ?  "  said  the  Deemster. 

'*^  They've  escaped  us  so  far,"  said  the  coroner  meekly. 

"  Escaped  you  }  What }  In  this  little  rat-hole  of  an  island, 
and  they've  escaped  you  }  " 

"  We  gave  them  chase  for  six  miles,  sir.  They've  taken 
the  mountains  for  it.  Up  past  the  Sherragh  Vane  at  Sulby, 
and  under  Snaefell  and  Beinn-y-Phott — that's  their  way,  sir. 
And  it  was  black  dark  up  yonder,  and  we  had  to  leave  it  till 
tlie  morrow.     We'll  take  them,  sir,  make  yourself  easy." 

"  Had  any  one  seen  them  }     Is  he  with  them  }  " 

"  Old  Moore,  the  miller  at  Sulby,  saw  them  as  they  went 
by  the  mill,  running  mortal  hard.  But  he  told  us  no,  the 
captain  wasn't  among  them." 

"  What !  then  you've  been  wasting  your  wind  over  the 
fishermen  while  he  has  been  clearing  away  }  " 

Jarvis  Kerruish  raised  his  head  from  where  he  was  pulling 
on  his  slippers. 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  sir,"  he  said  calmly.  "  We  will 
find  him,  though  he  lies  like  a  toad  under  a  stone." 

224 


BY  BISHOFS   LAW  OR  DEEMSTER'S 

"  Mettle,  mettle/'  the  Deemster  chuckled  into  his  breast, 
and  proceeded  to  throw  off  his  cloak.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
coroner  again. 

"  Have  you  summoned  the  jury  of  inquiry  }  " 

"  I  have,  sir — six  men  of  the  parish — court-house  at  Ramsey 
— eight  in  the  morning." 

"  We  must  indict  the  whole  six  of  them.  You  have  their 
names  }  Jarvis  will  write  them  down  for  you.  We  cannot 
have  five  of  them  giving  evidence  for  the  sixth." 

The  Deemster  left  the  hall  with  his  quick  and  restless  step, 
and  turned  into  the  dining-room,  where  Mona  was  helping  to 
lay  the  supper.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  her  eyes  were  red 
with  long  weeping,  she  moved  to  and  fro  with  a  slow  step, 
and  miseiy  itself  seemed  to  sit  on  her.  But  the  Deemster 
saw  nothing  of  this.  "  Mona,"  he  said,  "you  must  be  stirring 
before  daybreak  to-morrow." 

She  lifted  her  face  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"  We  breakfast  at  half-past  six,  and  leave  in  the  coach  at 
seven." 

With  a  puzzled  expression  she  asked  in  a  low  tone  where 
they  were  to  go. 

"  To  Ramsey,  for  the  court  of  inquiry,"  he  answered  with 
complacency. 

Mona's  left  hand  went  up  to  her  breast,  and  her  breath 
came  quick. 

"  But  why  am  I  to  go  }  "  she  asked  timidly. 

"  Because  in  cases  of  this  kind,  when  the  main  evidence  is 
circumstantial,  it  is  necessary  to  prove  a  motive  before  it  is 
possible  to  frame  an  indictment." 

"Well,  father?"  Mona's  red  eyes  opened  wide  with  a 
startled  look,  and  their  long  lashes  trembled. 

"Well,  girl,  you  shall  prove  the  motive." 

The  Deemster  opened  the  snufF-horn  on  the  mantle-shelf. 

"  /  am  to  do  so  }  " 

The  Deemster  glanced  up  sharply  under  his  spectacles. 
'^  Yes,  you,  child,  you,"  he  said,  with  quiet  emphasis,  and  lifted 
his  pinch  of  snuiF  to  his  nose. 

Mona's  breast  began  to  heave,  and  all  her  slight  frame  to 
quiver. 

"  Father,"  she  said  faintly,  "  do  you  mean  that  I  am  to  be 
the  chief  witness  against  the  man  who  took  my  brother's 
Ufe?" 

225 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"Well,  perhaps,  but  we  shall  see.  And  now  for  supper, 
and  then  to  bed,  for  we  must  be  stirring  before  the  lark." 

Mona  was  going  out  of  the  room  with  a  heavy  step  when  the 
Deemster,  who  had  seated  himself  at  the  table,  raised  his  eyes. 
"  Wait,"  he  said  ;  "  when  were  you  last  out  of  the  house  }  " 

"  Yesterday  morning,  sir.      I  was  at  the  ploughing  match." 

"  Have  you  had  any  visitors  since  five  last  night }  " 

"Visitors — five — I  do  not  understand " 

"  That  will  do,  child." 

Jarvis  Kerruish  came  into  the  room  at  this  moment.  He 
was  the  Deemster's  sole  companion  at  supper  that  night. 
And  so  ended  that  terrible  Christmas  Day. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    deemster's  INQUEST 

It  was  at  the  late  dawn  of  the  following  morning  that  Dan 
Mylrea  escaped  from  his  night-long  burial  in  the  shaft  of  the 
disused  lead  mine.  On  his  way  to  Ballamona  he  went  by  the 
little  shed  where  Mrs.  Kerruish  lived  with  her  daughter  Mally. 
The  sound  of  his  footstep  on  the  path  brought  the  old  woman 
to  the  doorway. 

"  Asking  pardon,  sir,"  the  old  body  said,  "  and  which  way 
may  you  be  going  ?  " 

Dan  answered  that  he  was  going  to  Ballamona. 

"  Not  to  the  Deemster's  }  Yes  }  Och  !  no.  Why,  d'ye  say.^ 
Well,  my  daughter  was  away  at  the  Street  last  night — where 
she  allis  is  o'  nights,  more's  the  pity,  leaving  me,  a  lone  woman, 
to  fret  and  fidget — and  there  in  the  house  where  they  tell 
all  the  newses,  the  guzzling  craythurs,  they  were  sayin'  that 
maybe  it  was  yourself  as  shouldn't  trouble  the  Deemster  for  a 
bit  of  a  spell  longer." 

Dan  took  no  further  heed  of  the  old  woman's  warning  than 
to  thank  her  as  he  passed  on.  When  he  got  to  Ballamona  the 
familiar  place  looked  strange  and  empty.  He  knocked,  but 
there  was  no  answer.  He  called,  but  there  was  no  reply. 
Presently  a  foot  on  the  gravel  woke  the  vacant  stillness.  It 
was  Hommy-beg,  and  at  sight  of  Dan  he  lifted  both  liis  hands. 

Then,  amid  many  solemn  exclamations,  slowly,  disjointedly, 

iJ26 


THE  DEEMSTER'S   INQUEST 

explaining,  excusing,  Hommy  told  what  had  occurred.  And  no 
sooner  had  Dan  realised  the  business  that  was  afoot,  and  that 
the  Deemster,  with  Jarvis  Kerruish  and  Mona,  were  gone  to 
Ramsey  on  a  court  of  inquiry  touching  Ewan's  death,  than  he 
straightway  set  his  face  in  the  same  direction. 

"  The  court  begins  its  business  at  eight,  you  say  ?  Well, 
good-bye,  Hommy,  and  God  bless  you  I "  he  said,  and  turned 
sharply  away.  But  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  came  back  the 
pace  or  two.  "  Wait,  let  us  shake  hands,  old  friend  ;  we  may 
not  have  another  chance.     Good-bye." 

In  a  moment  Dan  was  going  at  a  quick  pace  down  the  road. 

It  was  a  heavy  morning.  The  mists  were  gliding  slowly  up 
the  mountains  in  grim,  hooded  shapes,  their  long  white  skirts 
sweeping  the  meadows  as  they  passed.  Overhead  the  sky  was 
dim  and  empty.  Underfoot  the  roads  were  wet  and  thick. 
But  Dan  felt  nothing  of  this  wintry  gloom.  It  did  not  touch 
his  emancipated  spirit.  His  face  seemed  to  open  as  he  walked, 
and  his  very  stature  to  increase.  He  reflected  that  the  lumber- 
ing coach  which  carried  the  Deemster  and  his  daughter  and 
bastard  son  must  now  be  far  on  its  way  through  the  ruts  of 
this  rough  turnpike  that  lay  between  Michael  and  Ramsey. 
And  he  pushed  on  with  new  vigour. 

He  passed  few  persons  on  the  roads.  The  houses  seemed  to 
be  deserted.  Here  or  there  a  little  brood  of  children  played 
about  a  cottage  door.  He  hailed  them  cheerily  as  he  went  by, 
and  could  not  help  observing  that  when  the  little  ones  recog- 
nised him  they  dropped  their  play  and  huddled  together  at 
the  threshold  like  sheep  affrighted. 

As  he  passed  into  Ballaugh  under  the  foot  of  Glen  Dhoo  he 
came  upon  Corlett  Ballafayle.  The  great  man  opened  his  eyes 
wide  at  sight  of  Dan,  and  made  no  answer  to  his  salutation  ; 
but  when  Dan  had  gone  on  some  distance  he  turned,  as  if  by 
a  sudden  impulse,  and  hailed  him  with  scant  ceremony. 

"  Ay,  why  do  you  take  that  road  ?  " 

Dan  twisted  his  head,  but  he  did  not  stop,  and  Corlett 
Ballafayle  laughed  in  his  throat  at  a  second  and  more  satisfying 
reflection,  and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his 
question,  he  waved  the  back  of  one  hand,  and  said,  "All  right. 
Follow  on.     It's  nothing  to  me." 

Dan  had  seen  the  flicker  of  good -will,  followed  by  the  flame 
of  uncharity,  that  flashed  over  the  man's  face,  but  he  had  no 
taste  or  time  for  parley.     Pushing  on  past  the  muggy  inn  by 

227 


THE  DEEMSTER 

the  bridge,  past  the  smithy  that  stood  there  and  the  brewery 
that  stood  opposite,  he  came  into  the  village.  There  the 
women,  standing  at  their  doors,  put  their  heads  together, 
looked  after  him  and  whispered,  and,  like  Corlett  Ballafayle, 
forgot  to  answer  his  greeting.  It  was  then  that  over  his  new- 
found elevation  of  soul  Dan  felt  a  creeping  sense  of  shame. 
The  horror  and  terror  that  had  gone  before  had  left  no  room 
for  the  lower  emotion.  Overwhelmed  by  a  crushing  idea  of 
his  guilt  before  God,  he  had  not  realised  his  position  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fellow-men.  But  now  he  realised  it  and  knew  that 
his  crime  was  known.  He  saw  himself  as  a  hunted  man,  a 
homeless,  friendless  wanderer  on  the  earth,  a  murderer  from 
whom  all  must  shrink.  His  head  fell  into  his  breast  as  he 
walked,  his  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground,  he  lifted  his  face  no 
more  to  the  faces  of  the  people  whom  he  passed,  and  gave 
none  his  salutation. 

The  mists  lifted  off  the  mountains  as  the  morning  wore  on, 
and  the  bald  crowns  were  seen  against  the  empty  sky.  Dan 
quickened  his  pace.  When  he  came  to  Sulby  it  had  almost 
quickened  to  a  run,  and  as  he  went  by  the  mill  in  the  village 
he  noticed  that  old  Moore,  the  miller,  who  was  a  square-set, 
middle-aged  man  with  a  heavy  jowl,  stood  at  the  open  door 
and  watched  him.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  but  he  was  con- 
scious that  Moore  turned  hurriedly  into  the  mill,  and  that  at 
the  next  instant  one  of  his  men  came  as  hurriedly  out  of  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  he  was  at  the  bridge  that  crosses  the 
Sulby  river,  and  there  he  was  suddenly  confronted  by  a  gang 
of  men,  with  Moore  at  their  head.  They  had  crossed  the  river 
by  the  ford  at  the  mill-side,  and  running  along  the  southern 
bank  of  it  had  come  up  to  the  bridge  at  the  moment  that  Dan 
was  about  to  cross  it  from  the  road.  Armed  with  heavy  sticks, 
which  they  carried  threateningly,  they  called  on  Dan  to  sur- 
render himself.  Dan  stopped,  looked  into  their  hot  faces,  and 
said,  "  Men,  I  know  what  you  think,  but  you  are  wrong.  I  am 
not  running  away ;  I  am  going  to  Ramsey  court-house." 

At  that  the  men  laughed  derisively,  and  the  miller  said 
with  a  grin  that  if  Dan  was  on  his  road  to  Ramsey  they 
would  take  the  pleasure  of  his  company,  just  to  see  him 
safely  landed  there. 

Dan's  manner  was  quiet.  He  looked  about  him  with  calm 
but  searching  looks.  At  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  close 
to  the  foot  of  the  bridge,  there  was  a  smithy.    At  that  moment 

iJ28 


THE  DEEMSTER'S   INQUEST 

the  smith  was  hooping  a  cart-wheel,  and  his  striker  set  down  his 
sledge  and  tied  up  his  leather  apron  to  look  on  and  listen. 

"  Men,"  said  Dan  again  in  a  voice  that  was  low,  but  strong 
and  resolute,  "  it  is  the  truth  that  I  am  on  my  way  to  Ramsey 
court-house,  but  I  mean  to  go  alone,  and  don't  intend  to 
allow  any  man  to  take  me  there  as  a  prisoner." 

"  A  likely  tale,"  said  the  miller,  and  with  that  he  stepped  up 
to  Dan  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  At  the  next  moment 
the  man  of  flour  had  loosed  his  grip  with  a  shout,  and  his  white 
coat  was  rolling  in  the  thick  mud  of  the  wet  road.  Then  the 
other  men  closed  around  with  sticks  uplifted,  but  before  they 
quite  realised  what  they  were  to  do,  Dan  had  twisted  some 
steps  aside,  darted  through  them,  laid  hold  of  the  smith's 
sledge,  swung  it  on  his  shoulder,  and  faced  about. 

"  Now,  men,"  he  said  as  calmly  as  before,  "none  of  you 
shall  take  me  to  Ramsey,  and  none  of  you  shall  follow  me 
there.     I  must  go  alone." 

The  men  had  fallen  quickly  back.  Dan's  strength  of 
muscle  was  known,  and  his  stature  was  a  thing  to  respect. 
They  were  silent  for  a  moment  and  dropped  their  sticks. 
Then  they  began  to  mutter  among  themselves,  and  ask  what 
it  was  to  them  after  all,  and  what  for  should  they  meddle, 
and  what  was  a  few  shillin'  anyway  } 

Dan  and  his  sledge  passed  through.  The  encounter  had 
cost  him  some  minutes  of  precious  time,  but  the  ardour  of  his 
purpose  had  suffered  no  abatement  from  the  untoward  event, 
though  his  heart  was  the  heavier  for  it  and  the  dreary  day 
looked  the  darker. 

Near  the  angle  of  the  road  that  turns  to  the  left  to  Ramsey 
and  to  the  right  to  the  Sherragh  Vane,  there  was  a  little 
thatched  cottage  of  one  stoiy,  with  its  window  level  with 
the  road.  It  was  the  house  of  a  cobbler  named  Callister,  a 
lean,  hungry,  elderly  man,  who  lived  there  alone  under  the 
ban  of  an  old  rumour  of  evil  doings  of  some  sort  in  his  youth. 
Dan  knew  the  poor  soul.  Such  human  ruins  had  never  been 
quarry  to  him,  the  big-hearted  scapegrace,  and  now,  drawing 
near,  he  heard  the  beat  of  the  old  man's  hammer  as  he  worked. 
The  hammering  ceased,  and  Callister  appeared  at  his  door. 

"Capt'n,"  he  stammered,  "do  you  know— do  you  know 

}  "    He  tried  to  frame  his  words  and  could  not,  and  at  last 

he  blurted  out,  "  Quayle  the  Gyke  drove  by  an  hour  ago." 

Dan  knew  what  was  in  the  heart  of  the  poor  battered 
229 


THE   DEEMSTER 

creature,  and  it  touched  him  deeply.  He  was  moving  off 
without  speaking,  merely  waving  his  hand  for  answer  and 
adieu,  when  the  cobbler's  dog,  as  lean  and  hungry  as  its 
master  to  look  upon,  came  from  the  house  and  looked  up  at 
Dan  out  of  its  rheumy  eyes  and  licked  his  hand. 

The  cobbler  still  stood  at  his  door,  fumbling  in  his  fingers 
his  cutting-knife,  worn  obliquely  to  the  point,  and  struggling 
to  speak  more  plainly. 

"  The  Whitehaven  packet  leaves  Ramsey  to-night,  capt'n," 
he  said. 

Dan  waved  his  hand  once  more.  His  heart  sank  yet  lower. 
Only  by  the  very  dregs  of  humanity,  the  very  quarry  of  man- 
kind, and  by  the  dumb  creatures  that  licked  his  hand,  was 
his  fellowship  rewarded.  Thus  had  he  wasted  his  fidelity 
and  thrown  his  loyalty  away.  In  a  day  he  had  become  a 
hunted  man.  So  much  for  the  world's  gratitude  and  even 
the  world's  pity.  And  yet,  shunned  or  hunted,  a  mark  for 
the  finger  of  shame  or  an  aim  for  the  hand  of  hate,  he  felt  as 
he  had  felt  before,  bound  by  strong  ties  to  his  fellow-creatures. 
He  was  about  to  part  from  them ;  he  was  meeting  them  for 
the  last  time.  Not  even  their  coldest  glance  of  fear  or  sus- 
picion made  a  call  on  his  resolution. 

At  every  step  his  impatience  became  more  lively.  Through 
Lezayre  and  past  Milntown  he  walked  at  a  quick  pace.  He 
dared  not  run,  lest  his  eagerness  should  seem  to  betray  him, 
and  he  should  meet  with  another  such  obstacle  as  kept  him 
back  at  Sulby  Bridge.  At  length  he  was  walking  through 
the  streets  of  Ramsey.  He  noticed  that  most  of  the  people 
who  passed  him  gave  him  a  hurried  and  startled  look,  and 
went  quickly  on.  He  reached  the  court-house  at  last.  Groups 
stood  about  the  Saddle  Inn,  and  the  south  side  of  the  enclosure 
within  the  rails  was  crowded.  The  clock  in  the  church  tower 
in  the  market-place  beyond  was  striking  nine.  It  was  while 
building  that  square  tower,  twenty  years  before,  that  the 
mason  Looney  liad  dropped  to  his  knees  on  the  scaffold  and 
asked  the  blessing  of  the  Bishop  as  he  passed.  To  the 
Bishop's  son  the  clock  of  the  tower  seemed  now  to  be 
striking  the  hour  of  doom. 

The  people  within  the  rails  of  the  courtyard  fell  aside  as 
Dan  pushed  his  way  through,  and  the  dull  buzz  of  their 
gossip  fell  straightway  to  a  great  silence.  But  those  who 
stood  nearest  the  porch  were  straining  their  necks  towards 

230 


THE   DEEMSTER'S   INQUEST 

the  inside  of  the  court-house  in  an  effort  to  see  and, hear. 
Standing  behind  them  for  an  instant  Dan  heard  what  was 
said  in  whispers  by  those  within  to  those  without,  and  thus 
he  learned  what  had  been  done. 

The  Deemster's  inquest  had  been  going  on  for  an  hour. 
First,  the  landlady  of  the  "  Three  Legs  of  Man  "  had  sworn 
that,  at  about  three  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve,  Parson  Ewan 
had  inquired  at  her  house  for  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea,  and  had  bee  n 
directed  to  the  creek  known  sometimes  as  the  Lockjaw. 
Then,  the  butcher  from  the  shambles  in  the  lane  had  sworn 
that  Parson  Ewan  had  passed  him  walking  towards  the 
creek ;  and  the  longshore  fishermen  who  brought  the  body 
to  Bishop's  G^urt  gave  evidence  as  to  when  (ten  o'clock  on 
Christmas  morning)  and  where  (the  coral  ground  for  herrings, 
called  the  Mooragh)  it  came  ashore.  After  these,  Jarvis 
Kerruish  had  sworn  to  following  Parson  Ewan  within  half  an 
hour  of  the  deceased  leaving  Ballamona,  to  hearing  a  loud 
scream  as  he  approached  the  lane  leading  to  Orris  Head,  and 
to  finding  at  the  creek  the  fisher  lad  Davy  Fayle,  whose 
manner  awakened  strong  suspicion  when  he  was  questioned 
as  to  whether  he  had  seen  Parson  Ewan  and  his  master,  Mr. 
Daniel  Mylrea.  The  wife  of  one  of  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my- 
Chree  had  next  been  called  to  say  that  the  fishing-boat  had 
been  at  sea  from  high-water  on  Christmas  Eve.  The  woman 
had  given  her  evidence  with  obvious  diffidence  and  some 
confusion,  repeating  and  contradicting  herself,  being  sharply 
reprimanded  by  the  Deemster,  and  finally  breaking  down  into 
a  torrent  of  tears.  When  she  had  been  removed  the  house- 
keeper at  old  Ballamona,  an  uncomfortable,  bewildered  old 
body,  stated  that  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea  had  not  been  home  since  the 
early  morning  on  the  day  before  Christmas  Day.  Finally,  the 
harbour-master  at  Peel  had  identified  the  sailcloth  in  which  the 
body  had  been  wrapt  as  a  drift  yawlsail  of  the  Ben-my-Chree, 
and  he  had  also  sworn  that  the  lugger  of  that  name  had  come 
into  the  harbour  at  low-water  the  previous  night,  with  the 
men  Quilleash,  Teare,  Corkell,  Crennell,  and  Davy  Fayle,  as 
well  as  the  owner,  Mr.  Dan  Mylrea,  aboard  of  her. 

Without  waiting  to  hear  more,  Dan  made  one  great  call  on 
his  resolution  and  pushed  his  way  through  the  porch  into  the 
court-house.  Then  he  realised  that  there  was  still  some  virtue 
left  in  humanity.  No  sooner  had  the  people  in  the  court 
become  aware  of  his  presence  among  them  than  one  stepped 

231 


THE   DEEMSTER 

before  him  as  if  to  conceal  him  from  those  in  front,  while  another 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  elbowed  a  way  out,  beckon- 
ing him  to  follow  as  if  some  pressing  errand  called  him  away. 

But  Dan's  purpose  was  fixed,  and  no  cover  for  cowardice 
availed  to  shake  it.  Steadfast  and  silent  he  stood  at  the 
back  of  the  court,  half  hidden  by  the  throng  about  him,  try- 
ing to  look  on  with  a  cool  countenance,  and  to  fix  his  atten- 
tion on  the  proceedings  of  his  own  trial.  At  first  he  was 
conscious  of  no  more  than  the  obscurity  of  the  dusky  place 
and  a  sort  of  confused  murmur  that  rose  from  a  table  at  the 
farther  end.  For  a  while  he  looked  stupidly  on,  and  even 
trembled  slightly.  But  all  at  once  he  found  himself  listening 
and  seeing  all  that  was  going  on  before  him. 

The  court-house  was  densely  crowded.  On  the  bench  sat 
the  Deemster,  his  thin,  quick  face  as  sharp  as  a  pen  within 
his  heavy  wig.  Jarvis  Kerruish  and  Quayle,  the  coroner, 
stood  at  a  table  beneath.  Stretched  on  the  top  of  this  table 
was  a  canvas  sail.  Six  men  from  Michael  sat  to  the  right  as 
a  jury.  But  Dan's  eyes  passed  over  all  these  as  if  scarcely 
conscious  of  their  presence,  and  turned  by  an  instinct  of 
which  he  knew  nothing  towards  the  witness-box.  And 
there  Mona  herself  was  now  standing.  Her  face  was  very 
pale  and  drawn  hard  about  the  lips,  which  were  set  firm, 
though  the  nostrils  quivered  visibly.  She  wore  a  dark  cloak 
of  half-conventual  pattern,  with  a  hood  that  fell  back  from 
the  close  hat  that  sat  like  a  nun's  cap  about  her  smooth  fore- 
head. Erect  she  stood,  with  the  fire  of  two  hundred  eager 
eyes  upon  her,  but  her  bosom  heaved  and  the  fingers  of  her 
ungloved  hand  gripped  nervously  the  rail  in  front  of  her. 

In  an  instant  the  thin  shrill  voice  of  the  Deemster  broke 
on  Dan's  consciousness,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  listening  to 
his  own  trial,  with  Mona  put  up  to  give  evidence  against  him. 

"  When  did  you  see  your  brother  last }  " 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  At  what  hour  }  " 

"  At  about  two  o'clock." 

"  What  passed  between  you  at  that  interview  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  question. 

"  Tell  the  jury  if  there  was  any  unpleasantness  between  you 
and  your  brother  at  two  o'clock  the  day  before  yesterday." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  the  silence  was  broken  b}! 
the  reply,  meekly  spoken,  "It  is  true  that  he  was  angry." 

232 


THE   DEEMSTER'S   INQUEST 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  his  anger  ?  " 

Another  pause  and  no  answer.  The  Deemster  repeated 
his  question,  and  still  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Listen ;  on  your  answer  to  this  question  the  burden  of  the 
indictment  must  rest.  Circumstance  points  but  too  plainly 
to  a  crime.  It  points  to  one  man  as  perpetrator  of  that 
crime,  and  to  five  other  men  as  accessories  to  it.  But  it  is 
necessary  that  the  jury  should  gather  an  idea  of  the  motive 
that  inspired  it.  And  so  I  ask  again,  what  was  the  difference 
between  you  and  your  brother  at  your  interview  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  day  before  yesterday  ?  " 

There  was  a  deep  hush  in  the  court.  A  gloomy,  echoless 
silence,  like  that  which  goes  before  a  storm,  seemed  to  brood 
over  the  place.     All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  witness-box. 

"  Answer,"  said  the  Deemster  with  head  aslant.  "  I  ask  for 
an  answer — I  demand  it." 

Then  the  witness  lifted  up  her  great,  soft,  liquid  eyes  to  the 
Deemster's  face  and  spoke:  "Is  it  the  judge  or  the  father 
that  demands  an  answer  }  "  she  said. 

"The  judge,  the  judge,"  the  Deemster  replied  with  em- 
phasis, "we  know  of  no  father  here." 

At  that  the  burden  that  had  rested  on  Mona's  quivering 
face  seemed  to  lift  away.  "Then,  if  it  is  the  judge  that  asks 
the  question,  I  will  not  answer  it." 

The  Deemster  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  there  was  a  low 
rumble  among  the  people  in  the  court.  Dan  found  his  breath 
coming  audibly  from  his  throat,  his  finger-nails  digging  trenches 
in  his  palms,  and  his  teeth  set  so  hard  on  his  lips  that  both 
teeth  and  lips  were  bleeding. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  Deemster  spoke  again,  but 
more  softly  than  before,  and  in  a  tone  of  suavity. 

"  If  the  judge  has  no  power  with  you,  make  answer  to  the 
father,"  and  he  repeated  his  question. 

Amid  silence  that  was  painful  Mona  said,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "It  is  not  in  a  court  of  justice  that  a  father  should 
expect  an  answer  to  a  question  like  that." 

Then  the  Deemster  lost  all  self-control^  and  shouted  in  his 
shrill  treble  that,  whether  as  father  or  judge,  the  witness's 
answer  he  should  have  ;  that  on  that  answer  the  guilty  man 
should  yet  be  indicted,  and  that  even  as  it  would  be  damning 
to  that  man  so  it  should  hang  him. 

The  spectators  held  their  breath  at  the  Deemster's  words 
16  '^^S 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  looked  aghast  at  the  livid  face  on  the  bench.  They  were 
accustomed  to  the  Deemster  s  fits  of  rage,  but  such  an  out- 
break of  wrath  had  never  before  been  witnessed.  The  gloomy 
silence  was  unbroken  for  a  moment,  and  then  there  came  the 
sound  of  the  suppressed  weeping  of  the  witness. 

"Stop  that  noise!"  said  the  Deemster.  "We  know  for 
whom  you  shed  your  tears.  But  you  shall  yet  do  more  than 
cry  for  the  man.  If  a  word  of  yours  can  send  him  to  the 
gallows,  that  word  shall  yet  be  spoken," 

Dan  saw  and  heard  all.  The  dark  place,  the  judge,  the 
jury,  the  silent  throng,  seemed  to  swim  about  him.  For  a 
moment  he  struggled  with  himself,  scarcely  able  to  control 
the  impulse  to  push  through  and  tear  the  Deemster  from  his 
seat.  At  the  next  instant,  with  complete  self-possession  and 
strong  hold  of  his  passions,  he  had  parted  the  people  in  front 
of  him,  and  was  making  his  way  to  the  table  beneath  the 
bench.  Dense  as  the  crowd  was,  it  seemed  to  open  of  itself 
before  him,  and  only  the  low  rumble  of  many  subdued  voices 
floated  faintly  in  his  ear.  He  was  conscious  that  all  eyes  were 
upon  him,  but  most  of  all  that  Mona  was  watching  him  with 
looks  of  pain  and  fear. 

He  never  felt  stronger  than  at  that  moment.  Long  enough 
he  had  hesitated,  and  too  often  he  had  been  held  back,  but  now 
his  time  was  come.  He  stopped  in  front  of  the  table,  and  said 
in  a  full  clear  voice,  "  I  am  here  to  surrender — I  am  guilty." 

The  Deemster  looked  down  in  bewilderment ;  but  the 
coroner,  recovering  quickly  from  his  first  amazement,  bustled 
up  with  the  air  of  a  constable  making  a  capture,  and  put  tlie 
fetters  on  Dan's  wrists. 

What  happened  next  was  never  afterwards  rightly  known  to 
any  of  the  astonished  spectators.  The  Deemster  asked  the 
jury  for  their  verdict,  and  immediately  afterwards  he  called  on 
the  clerk  to  prepare  the  indictment. 

"Is  it  to  be  for  this  man  only,  or  for  all  six?"  the  clerk  asked. 

"All  six,"  the  Deemster  answered. 

Then  the  prisoner  spoke  again.  "Deemster/'  he  said, 
**  the  other  men  are  innocent." 

"  Where  are  they  .''  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  If  innocent,  why  are  they  in  hiding  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  they  are  innocent.  Their  only  fault  is  that 
they  have  tried  to  be  loyal  to  me." 

234 


FATHER  AND   SON 

"  Were  they  with  you  when  the  body  was  buried  ?  " 

Dan  made  no  answer. 

"  Did  they  bury  it  ?  " 

Still  no  answer.  The  Deemster  turned  to  the  clerk,  '  The 
six." 

"  Deemster/*  Dan  said,  with  stubborn  resolution,  "  why 
should  I  tell  you  what  is  not  true  ?  I  have  come  here  when, 
like  the  men  themselves,  I  might  have  kept  away." 

"  You  have  come  here,  prisoner,  when  the  hand  of  the  law 
was  upon  you,  when  its  vengeance  was  encircling  you,  entrap- 
ping you,  when  it  was  useless  to  hold  out  longer;  you  have 
come  here  thinking  to  lessen  your  punishment  by  your  sur- 
render. But  you  have  been  mistaken.  A  surrender  extorted 
when  capture  is  certain,  like  a  confession  made  when  crime 
cannot  be  denied,  has  never  yet  been  allowed  to  lessen  the 
punishment  of  the  guilty.     Nor  shall  it  lessen  it  now." 

Then  as  the  Deemster  rose  a  cry  rang  through  the  court. 
It  was  such  a  cry  out  of  a  great  heart  as  tells  a  whole  story  to 
a  multitude.  In  a  moment  the  people  saw  and  knew  all. 
They  looked  at  the  two  who  stood  before  them,  Dan  and  Mona, 
the  prisoner  and  the  witness,  with  eyes  that  filled,  and  from 
their  dry  throats  there  rose  a  deep  groan  from  their  midst. 

"  I  tell  you.  Deemster,  it  is  false,  and  the  men  are  innocent," 
said  Dan. 

The  clerk  was  seen  to  hand  a  document  to  the  Deemster, 
who  took  a  pen  and  signed  it. 

"The  accused  stands  committed  for  trial  at  the  Court  of 
General  Gaol  Delivery." 

At  the  next  moment  the  Deemster  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

FATHER    AND    SON 

The  prison  for  felons  awaiting  trial  in  the  civil  courts  was  in 
Castle  Rushen  at  Castletown,  but  Dan  Mylrea  was  not  taken 
to  it.  There  had  been  a  general  rising  in  the  south  of  the 
island  on  the  introduction  of  a  coinage  of  copper  money,  and 
so  many  of  the  rioters  had  been  arrested  and  committed  for 
trial,  without  bail,  at  the  Court  of  General  Gaol  Delivery,  that 

235 


THE  DEEMSTER 

the  prison  at  Castle  Rushen  was  full  to  overflowing.  Twenty 
men  had  guarded  the  place  day  and  night,  being  relieved 
every  twenty-four  hours  by  as  many  more  from  each  parish  in 
rotation,  some  of  them  the  kith  and  kin  of  the  men  imprisoned, 
and  all  summoned  to  Castletown  in  the  morning  by  the  ancient 
mode  of  fixing  a  wooden  cross  over  their  doors  at  night. 

Owing  to  this  circumstance  the  Deemster  made  the  extra- 
ordinary blunder  of  ordering  his  coroner  to  remove  Dan  to 
the  prison  beneath  the  ruined  castle  at  Peeltown.  Now,  the 
prison  on  St.  Patrick's  islet  had  for  centuries  been  under  the 
control  of  the  Spiritual  Courts,  and  was  still  available  for  use  in 
the  execution  of  the  ecclesiastical  censures.  The  gaoler  was 
the  parish  sumner,  and  the  sole  governor  and  director  was  the 
Bishop  himself.  All  this  the  Deemster  knew  full  well,  and 
partly  in  defiance  of  his  brother's  authority,  partly  in  contempt 
of  it,  but  mainly  in  bitter  disdain  of  his  utter  helplessness, 
where  his  son's  guilt  was  manifest  and  confessed,  he  arrogated 
the  right,  without  sanction  from  the  spiritual  powers,  of  com- 
mitting Dan  to  the  Church  prison,  the  civil  prison  being  full. 

It  was  a  foul  and  loathsome  dungeon,  and  never  but  once 
had  Bishop  Mylrea  been  known  to  use  it.  Dark,  small, 
damp,  entered  by  a  score  of  narrow  steps,  down  under  the 
vaults  on  the  floor  of  the  chapel,  over  the  long  runnels  made 
in  the  rock  by  the  sea,  it  was  as  vile  a  hole  as  the  tyranny  of 
the  Church  ever  turned  into  a  gaol  for  the  punishment  of 
those  who  resisted  its  authority. 

The  sumner  in  charge  was  old  Paton  Gorry,  of  Kirk 
Patrick,  a  feeble  soul  with  a  vast  respect  for  authority,  and 
no  powers  of  nice  distinction  between  those  who  were  placed 
above  him.  When  he  received  the  Deemster's  warrant  for 
Dan's  committal  he  did  not  doubt  its  validity;  and  when 
Quayle,  the  coroner,  for  his  own  share,  ordered  that  the 
prisoner  should  be  kept  in  the  close  confinement  of  the  dun- 
geon, he  acquiesced  without  question. 

If  Dan's  humiliation  down  to  this  moment  had  not  been 
gall  and  wormwood  to  his  proud  and  stubborn  spirit  the  fault 
did  not  lie  at  the  door  of  Quayle  the  Gyke.  Every  indignity 
that  an  unwilling  prisoner  could  have  been  subjected  to  Dan 
underwent.  From  the  moment  of  leaving  the  court-house  at 
Ramsey,  Dan  was  pushed  and  huddled  and  imperiously  com- 
manded with  such  an  abundant  lack  of  need  and  reason  tliat 
at  length  the  people  who  crowded  the  streets  or  looked  from 

236 


FATHER  AND   SON 

their  windows — the  same  people,  many  of  them,  who  had  shrunk 
from  Dan  as  he  entered  the  town — shouted  at  the  coroner  and 
groaned  at  him.  But  Dan  himself,  who  had  never  before  ac- 
cepted a  blow  from  any  man  without  returning  it,  was  seen  to 
walk  tamely  by  the  coroner's  side,  towering  above  him  in  great 
stature,  but  taking  his  rough  handling  like  a  child  at  his  knees. 

At  the  door  of  the  prison  where  Quayle's  function  ended 
that  of  the  sumner  began,  and  old  Gorry  was  a  man  of 
another  mould.  Twenty  times  he  had  taken  charge  of 
persons  imprisoned  six  days  for  incontinence,  and  once  he 
had  held  the  governor's  wife  twelve  hours  for  slander,  and 
once  again  a  fighting  clergyman  seven  days  for  heresies  in 
looking  towards  Rome,  but  never  before  had  he  put  man, 
woman,  or  child  into  the  pestilential  hole  under  the  floor  of 
the  old  chapel.  Dan  he  remembered  since  the  Bishop's  son 
was  a  boy  in  corduroys,  and  when  the  rusty  key  of  the  dun- 
geon turned  on  him  with  a  growl  in  its  wards,  and  old  Gorry 
went  shivering  to  the  guard-room  above  and  kindled  himself 
a  fire  there  and  sat  and  smoked,  the  good  man  under  his  rough 
surtout  got  the  better  of  the  bad  gaoler.  Then  down  he  went 
again,  and  with  a  certain  shamefacedness,  some  half-comic, 
half-pathetic  efforts  of  professional  reserve,  he  said  he  wouldn't 
object,  not  he,  if  Dan  had  a  mind  to  come  up  and  warm  him- 
self    But  Dan  declined  with  words  of  cold  thanks. 

''No,  Gorry,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  that  I  feel  the  cold." 

"  Oh,  all  right,  all  right ;  sit  ye  there,  sit  ye  there,"  said 
Gorry.  He  whipped  about  with  as  much  of  largeness  as  he 
could  simulate,  rattled  his  keys  as  he  went  back,  and  even 
hummed  a  tune  as  he  climbed  the  narrow  stairs.  But, 
warming  itself  at  the  fire,  the  poor  human  nature  in  the  old 
man's  breast  began  to  tear  him  pitilessly.  He  could  get  no 
peace  for  memories  that  would  arise  of  the  days  when  Dan 
plagued  him  sorely,  the  sad  little  happy  dog.  Then  up  he 
rose  again,  and  down  he  went  to  the  dungeon  once  more. 

"  I  respects  the  ould  Bishop,"  he  said,  just  by  way  of  pre- 
liminary apology  and  to  help  him  to  carry  off  his  intention, 
*'  and  if  it  be  so  that  a  man  has  done  wrong,  I  don't  see — I 
don't  see,"  he  stammered,  "it  isn't  natheral  that  he  should 
be  starved  alive  anyway,  and  a  cold  winter's  night  too." 

"  It's  no  more  than  I  deserve,"  Dan  mumbled  ;  and  at  that 
word  old  Gorry  whipped  about  as  before,  repeating  loftily, 
"Sit  ye  there,  sit  ye  there." 

237 


THE   DEEMSTER 

It  was  not  for  him  to  cringe  and  sue  to  a  prisoner  to  come 
up  out  of  that  foul  hole,  och!  no;  and  the  Bishop's  sumner 
inflated  his  choking  chest  and  went  back  for  another  pipe. 
15ut  half  an  hour  later  the  night  had  closed  in,  and  old  Gorry, 
with  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  was  at  the  door  of  Dan's  prison 
again. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  sir,"  he  muttered,  "  I  can't  get  lave  for 
a  wink  of  sleep  up  yonder,  and  if  you  don't  come  up  to  the 
fire  I  wouldn't  trust  but  I'll  be  forced  to  stay  down  here  in 
the  cold  myself" 

Before  Dan  could  make  answer  there  came  a  loud  knocking 
from  overhead.  In  another  moment  the  key  of  the  door  had 
turned  in  its  lock  from  without,  and  Gorry's  uncertain  footfall 
was  retreating  on  the  steps. 

When  Dan  had  first  been  left  alone  in  his  dark  cell,  he  had 
cast  himself  down  on  the  broad  slab  cut  from  the  rock  which 
was  his  only  seat  and  bed.  His  suspense  was  over;  the 
weight  of  uncertainty  was  lifted  from  his  brain,  and  he  tried 
to  tell  himself  that  he  had  done  well.  He  thought  of  Ewan 
now  with  other  feelings  than  before — of  his  uprightness,  his 
tenderness,  his  brotherly  affection,  his  frequent  intercession 
and  no  less  frequent  self-sacrifice.  Then  he  thought  of  his 
own  headlong  folly,  his  blank  insensitiveness,  his  cold  in- 
gratitude, and,  last  of  all,  of  his  blundering  passion  and  mad 
wrath.  All  else  on  both  sides  was  blotted  from  his  memory 
in  that  hour  of  dark  searching.  Alone  with  his  crime — 
tortured  no  more  by  blind  hopes  of  escaping  its  penalty,  or 
dread  misgivings  as  to  the  measure  of  his  guilt — his  heart 
went  out  to  the  true  friend  whose  life  he  had  taken  with  a 
great  dumb  yearning  and  a  bitter  remorse.  No  cruel  voice 
whispered  now  in  palliation  of  his  offence  that  it  had  not  been 
murder,  but  the  accident  of  self-defence.  He  had  proposed 
the  fight  that  ended  with  Ewan's  death,  and,  when  Ewan 
would  have  abandoned  it,  he,  on  his  part,  would  hear  of  no 
truce.  Murder  it  was;  and,  bad  as  murder  is  at  the  best, 
this  murder  had  been,  of  all  murders,  most  base  and  foul. 
Yes,  he  had  done  well.  Here  alone  could  he  know  one  hour 
of  respite  from  terrible  thoughts.  This  dark  vault  was  his 
only  resting-place  until  he  came  to  lie  in  the  last  resting- 
place  of  all.  There  could  be  no  going  back.  Life  was  for 
ever  closed  against  him.  He  had  spilled  the  blood  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  him  with  more  than  a  brother's  love,  and 

238 


FATHER   AND   SON 

to  whom  his  own  soul  had  been  grappled  with  hooks  of  steel. 
It  was  enough,  and  the  sick  certainty  of  the  doom  before  him 
was  easiest  to  bear. 

It  was  with  thoughts  hke  these  that  Dan  had  spent  his 
first  hours  in  prison,  and  when  old  Gorry  had  interrupted 
them  time  after  time  with  poor  little  troubles  about  the 
freezing  cold  of  the  pestilential  place,  he  hardly  saw  through 
the  old  man's  simulation  into  the  tender  bit  of  human  nature 
that  lay  behind  it. 

A  few  minutes  after  Gorry  had  left  the  cell,  in  answer  to 
the  loud  knocking  that  had  echoed  through  the  empty 
chambers  overhead,  Dan  could  hear  that  he  was  returning 
to  it,  halting  slowly  down  the  steps  with  many  a  pause,  and 
mumbling  remarks  meantime,  as  if  lighting  some  one  who 
came  after  him. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  it's  dark,  very  dark.  I'll  set  the  lantern 
here,  my  lord,  and  turn  the  key." 

In  another  moment  old  Gorry  was  at  Dan's  side,  saying,  in 
a  fearful  under-tone,  "  Lord  a  massy !  it's  the  Bishop  liisself. 
I  lied  to  him  mortal,  so  I  did — but  no  use.  I  said  you  were 
sleeping,  but  no  good  at  all  at  all.  He  wouldn't  take  rest  with- 
out putting  a  sight  on  you.    Here  he  is Come  in,  my  lord." 

Almost  before  Dan's  mind,  distraught  by  other  troubles, 
had  time  to  grasp  what  Gorry  said,  the  old  gaoler  had  clapped 
his  lantern  on  the  floor  of  the  cell,  and  had  gone  from  it,  and 
Dan  was  alone  wdth  his  father. 

"  Dan,  are  you  awake  ?  "  the  Bishop  asked,  in  a  low,  eager 
tone.  His  eyes  were  not  yet  familiar  with  the  half-light  of 
the  dark  place,  and  he  could  not  see  his  son.  But  Dan  saw 
his  father  only  too  plainly,  and  one  glance  at  him  in  that  first 
instant  of  recovered  consciousness  went  far  to  banish  as  an 
empty  sophism  the  soothing  assurance  he  had  lately  nursed 
at  his  heart  that  in  what  he  had  done  he  had  done  well. 

The  Bishop  was  a  changed  and  shattered  man.  His  very 
stature  seemed  to  have  shrunk,  and  his  Jovian  white  head  was 
dipped  into  his  breast.  His  great  calm  front  was  gone,  and 
in  the  feeble  light  of  the  lantern  on  the  floor  his  eyes  were 
altered  and  his  face  seemed  to  be  cut  deep  with  lines  of  fear, 
and  even  of  cunning.  His  irresolute  mouth  was  half-open, 
as  if  it  had  only  just  emitted  a  startled  cry.  In  one  of  his 
hands  he  held  a  small  parcel  bound  tightly  with  a  broad  strap, 
and  the  other  hand  wandered  nervously  in  the  air  before  him. 

239 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Dan  saw  everything  in  an  instant.  This,  then,  was  the  first- 
fruits  of  that  day's  work.     He  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Father  ! "  he  cried  in  a  faint  tremulous  voice. 

"  My  son ! "  the  Bishop  answered,  and  for  some  swift  mo- 
ments thereafter  the  past  that  had  been  veiy  bitter  to  both 
was  remembered  no  more  by  either. 

But  the  sweet  obhvion  was  cruelly  brief.  "Wait,"  the 
Bishop  whispered,  "are  we  alone.?"  And  with  that  the 
once  stately  man  of  God  crept  on  tip-toe  like  a  cat  to  the 
door  of  the  cell,  and  put  his  head  to  it  and  listened. 

"  Art  thou  there,  Paton  Gorry  t"  he  asked,  feebly  simulat- 
ing his  accustomed  tone  of  quiet  authority. 

Old  Gorry  answered  from  the  other  side  of  the  door  that 
he  was  there,  that  he  was  sitting  on  the  steps,  that  he  was 
not  sleeping,  but  waiting  my  lord's  return. 

The  Bishop  crept  back  to  Dan's  side  with  the  same  cat-like 
step  as  before.  "  You  are  safe,  my  son,"  he  whispered  in  his 
low  eager  tone.  "  You  shall  leave  this  place.  It  is  my  prison, 
and  you  shall  go  free." 

Dan  had  watched  his  father's  movements  with  a  sickening 
sense. 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  that  I  surrendered } "  he  said 
faintly. 

"Yes,  yes,  oh  yes,  I  know  it.  But  that  was  when  your 
arrest  was  certain.     But  now — listen." 

Dan  felt  as  if  his  father  had  struck  him  across  the  face. 
"  That  was  what  the  Deemster  said,"  he  begun ;  "  but  it  is 
wrong." 

"Listen — they  have  nothing  against  you.  I  know  all. 
They  cannot  convict  you  save  on  your  own  confession.  And 
why  should  you  confess  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"Don't  speak — don't  explain — I  must  not  hear  you — 
listen!"  and  the  old  man  put  one  arm  on  his  son's  shoulder 
and  his  mouth  to  his  ear.  "  There  is  only  one  bit  of  tangible 
evidence  against  you,  and  it  is  here ;  look  ! "  and  he  lifted 
before  Dan's  face  the  parcel  he  carried  in  his  other  trembling 
hand.  Then  down  he  went  on  one  knee,  put  the  parcel  on 
the  floor,  and  unclasped  the  strap.  The  parcel  fell  open.  It 
contained  a  coat,  a  hat,  two  militia  daggers,  and  a  large  heavy 
stone. 

"  Look  ! "  the  Bishop  whispered  again,  in  a  note  of  triumph, 
240 


FATHER  AND   SON 

and  as  he  spoke  a  grin  of  delight  was  struck  out  of  his  saintly 
old  face. 

Dan  shuddered  at  the  sight. 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  Bishop  gave  a  little  grating  laugh. 

"  They  were  brought  me  by  some  of  my  good  people,"  he 
answered.  "  Oh,  yes,  good  people  all  of  them  ;  and  they  will 
not  tell.     Oh,  no,  they  have  promised  me  to  be  silent." 

"  Promised  you  }  " 

''Yes — listen  again.  Last  night — it  was  dark,  I  think  it 
must  have  been  past  midnight — I  went  to  all  their  houses. 
They  were  in  bed,  but  I  knocked,  and  they  came  down  to 
me.  Yes,  they  gave  me  their  word — on  the  Book  they  gave 
it.  Good  people  all — Jabez  the  tailor,  Stean  the  cobbler, 
Juan  of  Ballacry,  and  Thormod  in  the  Street.  I  remember 
every  man  of  them." 

"  Father,  do  you  say  you  went  to  these  people — these,  the 
very  riff-raff  of  the  island — you  went  to  them — you,  and  at 
midnight — and  begged  them " 

"  Hush,  it  is  nothing.  Why  not  ?  But  this  is  important." 
The  Bishop,  who  was  still  on  his  knee,  was  buckling  up  the 
parcel  again.  "  You  can  sink  it  in  the  sea.  Did  you  mark 
the  stone  }  That  will  carry  it  to  the  bottom.  And  when  you 
are  in  the  boat  it  will  be  easy  to  drop  everything  overboard." 

"The  boat.?" 

"  Ah  !  have  I  not  told  you  ?  Thormod  Mylechreest — you 
remember  him  ?  A  good  man,  Thormod,  a  tender  heart,  too, 
and  wronged  by  his  father,  poor  misguided  man.  Well, 
Mylechreest  has  promised — I  have  just  left  him — to  come 
down  to  the  harbour  at  nine  to-night,  and  take  the  fishing- 
smack,  the  Ben-my-Chree  and  bring  her  round  to  the  west 
coast  of  St.  Patrick's  Islet,  and  cast  anchor  there,  and  then 
come  ashore  in  the  boat,  and  wait  for  you." 

"  Wait  for  me,  father  }  " 

"  Yes ;  for  this  prison  is  mine,  and  I  shall  open  its  doors  to 
whomsoever  it  pleases  me  to  liberate.     Look  !  " 

The  Bishop  rose  to  his  full  height,  threw  back  his  head,  and 
with  a  feeble  show  of  his  wonted  dignity  strode  to  the  door 
of  the  cell  and  cried,  in  a  poor  stifled  echo  of  his  accustomed 
strong  tone,  "  Paton  Gorry,  open  thou  this  door." 

Old  Gorry  answered  from  without,  and  presently  the  door 
was  opened. 

241 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"Wider." 

The  door  was  thrown  wide. 

"  Now,  give  me  the  keys,  Paton  Gorry/'  said  the  Bishop, 
with  the  same  assmnption  of  authority. 

Old  Gorry  handed  his  keys  to  the  Bishop. 

"And  get  thee  home,  and  stay  there." 

Old  Gorry  touched  his  cap  and  went  up  the  steps. 

Then,  with  a  bankrupt  smile  of  sorry  triumph,  the  Bishop 
turned  to  his  son.  "  You  see,"  he  said,  "  you  are  free.  Let 
me  look — what  is  the  hour.?*"  He  fumbled  for  his  watch. 
"  Ah  !  I  had  forgotten.  I  paid  my  watch  away  to  poor  Patrick 
Looney.  No  matter.  At  nine  by  the  clock  Mylechreest  will 
come  for  you,  and  you  will  go  to  your  boat  and  set  sail  for 
Scotland,  or  England,  or  Ireland,  or — or " 

Dan  could  bear  up  no  longer.  His  heart  was  choking. 
"  Father,  father,  my  father,  what  are  you  saying  }  "  he  cried. 

"  I  am  saying  that  you  are  free  to  leave  this  place." 

"  I  will  not  go — I  cannot  go." 

The  Bishop  fetched  a  long  breath  and  paused  for  a  moment. 
He  put  one  trembling  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  to  steady  his 
reeling  and  heated  brain. 

"  You  cannot  stay,"  he  said.  "  Hark  !  do  you  hear  the 
wind  how  it  moans  }  Or  is  it  the  sea  that  beats  on  the 
rock  outside }  And  over  our  heads  are  the  dead  of  ten 
generations." 

But  Dan  was  suffocating  with  shame;  the  desolation  around, 
the  death  that  was  lying  silent  above,  and  the  mother  of  sor- 
rows that  was  wailing  beneath  had  no  terrors  left  for  him. 

"  Father,  my  father,"  he  cried  again,  "  think  what  you  ask 
me  to  do.  Only  think  of  it.  You  ask  me  to  allow  you  to  buy 
the  silence  of  the  meanest  hinds  alive.  And  at  what  a  price  } 
At  the  price  of  the  influence,  the  esteem,  the  love,  and  the 
reverence  that  you  have  won  by  the  labour,  of  twenty  years. 
And  to  what  end  }     To  the  end  that  I — I " 

"  To  the  end  that  you  may  live,  my  son.  Remember  what 
your  father's  love  has  been  to  you.  No,  not  that — but  think 
what  it  must  have  been  to  him.  Your  father  would  know  you 
were  alive.  It  is  true  he  would  never,  never  see  you.  Yes, 
we  should  always  be  apart — you  there,  and  I  here — and  I 
should  take  your  hand  and  see  your  face  no  more.  But  you 
would  be  alive " 

"  Father,  do  you  call  it  living  }  Think  if  I  could  bear  it 
242 


FATHER  AND   SON 

Suppose  I  escaped — suppose  I  were  safe  in  some  place  far 
away — the  Indies,  America,  anywhere  out  of  the  reach  of 
shame  and  death — suppose  I  were  well,  ay,  and  prosperous  as 
the  world  goes — what  then  ?  " 

''Then  I  should  be  content,  my  son.  Yes,  content,  and 
thanking  God." 

"And  I  should  be  the  most  wretched  of  men.  Only  think 
of  it,  and  picture  me  there.  I  should  know,  though  there  were 
none  to  tell  me,  I  should  remember  it  as  often  as  the  sun  rose 
above  me,  that  at  home,  thousands  of  miles  away,  my  poor 
father,  the  righteous  Bishop  that  once  was,  the  leader  of  his 
people  and  their  good  father,  was  the  slave  of  the  lowest  offal 
of  them  all,  powerless  to  raise  his  hand  for  the  hands  that  were 
held  over  him,  dumb  to  reprove  for  the  evil  tongues  that  threat- 
ened to  speak  ill.  And,  as  often  as  night  came  and  I  tried  to 
sleep,  I  should  see  him  there  growing  old,  very  old,  and  maybe 
very  feeble,  and  wanting  an  arm  to  lean  on,  and  good  people 
to  honour  him  and  to  make  him  forget — yes,  forget  the  mad 
shipwreck  of  his  son's  life,  but  with  eyes  that  could  not  lift 
themselves  from  the  earth  for  secret  shame,  tortured  by  fears 
of  dishonour,  self-tormented  and  degraded  before  the  face  of 
his  God.     No,  no,  no,  I  cannot  take  such  sacrifice." 

The  Bishop  had  drawn  nearer  to  Dan  and  tried  to  take  his 
hand.  When  Dan  was  silent  he  did  not  speak  at  once,  and 
when  Dan  sat  on  his  stone  seat  he  sat  beside  him,  gentle  as  a 
child,  and  very  meek  and  quiet,  and  felt  for  his  hand  again, 
and  held  it,  though  Dan  would  have  drawn  it  away.  Then, 
as  they  sat  together,  nearer  the  old  Bishop  crept,  nearer  and 
yet  nearer,  until  one  of  his  trembling  arms  encircled  Dan's 
neck,  and  the  dear  head  was  drawn  down  to  his  swelling, 
throbbing  breast,  as  if  it  were  a  child's  head  still,  and  it  was 
a  father's  part  to  comfort  it  and  to  soothe  away  its  sorrows. 

''  Then  we  will  go  together,"  he  said,  after  a  time,  in  a  faint 
forlornness  of  voice,  "  to  the  utmost  reaches  of  the  earth,  leav- 
ing all  behind  us,  and  thinking  no  more  of  the  past.  Yes,  we 
will  go  together,"  he  said  very  quietly,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
still  holding  Dan's  hand. 

Dan  was  suffocating  with  shame.  "  Father,"  he  said,  "  I 
see  all  now ;  you  think  me  innocent,  and  so  you  would  leave 
everything  for  my  sake.     But  I  am  a  guilty  man." 

"  Hush  !  you  shall  not  say  that.  Don't  tell  me  that.  No 
one  shall  tell  me  that.     I  will  not  hear  it." 

243 


THE  DELMSTER 

The  hot  eagerness  of  the  Bishop's  refusal  to  hear  with  his 
ears  the  story  of  his  son's  guilt  told  Dan  but  too  surely  that 
he  had  already  heard  it  with  his  heart. 

"  Father,  no  one  would  need  to  tell  you.  You  would  find  it 
out  for  yourself.  And  think  of  that  awful  undeceiving  !  You 
w^ould  take  your  son's  part  against  the  world,  believing  in  him, 
but  you  would  read  his  secret  bit  by  bit,  day  by  day.  His 
crime  would  steal  in  between  you  like  a  spectre,  it  would 
separate  you  hour  by  hour,  until  at  length  you  would  be  for 
ever  apart.  And  that  end  would  be  the  worst  end  of  all.  No, 
it  cannot  be.  Justice  is  against  it ;  love  is  against  it.  And 
God,  I  think,  God  must  be  against  it,  too." 

"God!" 

Dan  did  not  hear.  ''Yes,  I  am  guilty,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
have  killed  the  man  who  loved  me  as  his  own  soul.  He  would 
have  given  his  life  for  my  life,  even  as  he  gave  his  honour  for 
my  honour.  And  I  slew  him.  Ewan !  Ewan !  my  brother, 
my  brother ! "  he  cried,  and  where  he  sat  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

The  Bishop  stood  over  his  son  with  the  same  gentle  calm 
that  had  come  upon  him  in  the  cell,  and  with  not  one  breath 
of  the  restless  fever  with  which  he  entered  it.  Once  again 
he  tried  to  take  Dan's  hand  and  to  hold  it,  and  to  meet  with 
his  own  full  orbs  Dan's  swimming  eyes. 

"  Yes,  father,  it  is  right  that  I  should  die,  and  it  is  neces- 
sary.   Perhaps  God  will  take  my  death  as  an  atonement " 

"  Atonement ! " 

"  Or,  if  there  is  no  atonement,  there  is  only  hell  for  my 
crime,  and  before  God  I  am  guilty." 

''  Before  God  !  " 

The  Bishop  echoed  Dan's  words  in  a  dull,  mechanical 
under-breath,  and  stood  a  long  time  silent  while  Dan  poured 
forth  his  bitter  remorse.  Then  he  said,  speaking  with  some- 
thing of  his  own  courageous  calm  of  voice,  from  something  like 
liis  own  pure  face,  and  with  some  of  the  upright  wrinkles  of 
his  high  forehead  smoothed  away,  "  Dan,  I  will  go  home  and 
think.  I  seem  to  be  awakening  from  a  dreadful  nightmare  in 
a  world  where  no  God  is,  and  no  light  reigns,  but  all  is  dark. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  Dan,  I  fear  my  faith  is  not  what  it  was 
or  should  be.  I  thought  I  knew  God's  ways  with  His  people, 
and  then  it  seemed  as  if,  after  all  these  years,  I  had  not  known 
Him.     But  I  am  only  a  poor  priest,  and  a  very  weak  old  maa 

244 


DIVINATION 

Good-i  light,  my  son ;  I  will  go  home  and  think.  I  am  like  one 
who  runs  to  save  a  child  from  a  great  peril  and  finds  a  man 
stronger  than  himself  and  braver :  one  who  looks  on  death 
face  to  face  and  quails  not.  Good-night,  Dan  ;  I  will  go  home 
and  pray." 

And  so  he  went  his  way,  the  man  of  God  in  his  weakness. 
lie  left  his  son  on  the  stone  seat,  with  covered  face,  the 
lantern  and  the  parcel  on  the  floor,  and  the  door  of  the  cell 
wide  open.  The  keys  he  carried  half-consciously  in  his 
hand.  He  stumbled  along  in  the  darkness  doAvn  the  winding 
steps  hewn  from  the  rock  to  the  boat  at  the  little  wooden 
jetty,  where  a  boatman  sat  awaiting  him.  The  night  was 
very  dark,  and  the  sea's  loud  moan  and  its  dank  salt  breath 
were  in  the  air.  He  did  not  see,  he  did  not  hear,  he  did  not 
feel.  But  there  was  one  in  that  lonesome  place  who  saw  his 
dark  figure  as  he  passed.  "  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  an  eager 
voice,  as  he  went  through  the  deep  portcullis  and  out  at  the 
old  notched  and  barred  door  ajar.  But  the  Bishop  neither 
answered  nor  heard. 

At  the  house  in  Castle  Street,  near  to  the  Quay,  he  stopped 
and  knocked.     The  door  was  opened  by  the  old  sumner. 

"I've  brought  you  the  keys,  Paton  Gorry.  Go  back  to 
your  charge." 

"  Did  you  lock  the  doors,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Yes — no,  no — I  must  have  forgotten.  I  fear  my  mind — 
but  it  is  of  no  moment.     Go  back,  Paton — it  Avill  be  enough." 

"  I'll  go,  my  lord,"  said  the  sumner. 

He  went  back,  but  others  had  been  there  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DIVINATION 

Well  satisfied  with  his  day's  work,  the  Deemster  drove  from 
the  Ramsey  court-house  to  midday  dinner  with  his  father-in- 
law,  the  old  archdeacon,  taking  Jarvis  Kerruish  with  him. 
Mona  he  sent  home  in  the  lumbering  car  driven  by  the 
coroner.  It  suited  well  with  the  girl's  troubled  mind  to  be 
alone,  and  when  night  fell  in  and  the  Deemster  had  not  re- 
turned, the  grim  gloom  of  the  lonely  house  on  Slieu  Dhoo 

245 


THE   DEEMSTER 

brought  her  no  terrors.  But  towards  nine  o'clock  the  gaunt 
silence  of  the  place  was  broken,  and  from  that  time  until  long 
after  midnight  Ballamona  was  a  scene  of  noise  and  confusion. 

First  came  blind  Kerry,  talking  loudly  along  the  passages, 
wringing  her  hands,  and  crying,  "  Aw,  dear !  oh,  mam !  oh, 
goodness  me  ! " 

Mastha  Dan  was  no  longer  in  prison,  he  had  been  kid- 
napped ;  four  men  and  a  boy  had  taken  him  by  main  force ; 
bound  hand  and  foot,  he  had  been  carried  through  the  moun  • 
tains  to  a  lonely  place,  and  there  at  daybreak  to-morrow  he 
was  to  be  shot.  All  this  and  more,  with  many  details  of  place 
and  circumstance,  Kerry  had  seen  as  in  a  flash  of  light,  just  as  she 
was  raking  the  ashes  on  the  fire  preparatory  to  going  to  bed. 

Mona  had  gone  through  too  much  to  be  within  touch  of 
the  blind  woman's  excitement." 

"  We  must  not  give  way  to  these  fancies,  Kerry,"  she  said. 

"  Fancies,  mam  }  Fancies  you're  saying  }  Scoffers  may 
mock,  but  don't  you,  mam — brought  up  with  my  own  hand, 
as  the  saying  is." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  mock,  Kerry ;  but  we  have  so  many 
real  troubles  that  it  seems  wicked  to  imagine  others — and 
perhaps  a  little  foolish,  too." 

At  that  word  the  sightless  face  of  Kerry  grew  to  a  great 
gravity. 

''  Foolish,  mam  }  It  is  the  gift — the  gift  of  the  good  God. 
He  made  me  blind,  but  He  gave  me  the  sights.  It  would 
have  been  hard,  and  maybe  a  taste  cruel,  to  shut  me  up  in 
the  dark,  and  every  living  craythur  in  the  light ;  but  He  is  a 
just  God  and  a  merciful,  as  the  saying  is,  and  He  gave  me 
the  gift  for  recompense." 

"My  good  Kerry,  I  am  so  tired  to-night,  and  must  go  to 
bed." 

"  Aw,  yes,  and  well  it  has  sarved  me  time  upon  time " 

"We  were  up  before  six  this  morning,  Kerry." 

"And  now  I  say  to  you,  send  immadient,  mam,  or  the 
Lord  help " 

The  blind  woman's  excitement  and  Mona's  impassibility 
were  broken  in  upon  by  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice  in  the  hall 
asking  sharply  for  the  Deemster.  At  the  next  moment  Quayle, 
the  coroner,  was  in  the  room.  His  face  was  flushed,  his  breath 
came  quick,  and  his  manner  betrayed  extreme  agitation. 

"  When  the  Deemster  comes  home  from  Kirk  Andreas  tell 
246 


DIVINATION 

him  to  go  across  to  Bishop's  Court  at  once,  and  say  that  I 
will  be  back  before  midnight." 

So  saying  the  coroner  wheeled  about  without  ceremony, 
and  was  leaving  the  room. 

"  What  has  happened  at  Bishop's  Court  ?  "  Mona  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"Then  why  should  I  tell  him  to  go  there ? " 

The  tone  of  the  question  awakened  the  curmudgeon's  sense 
of  common  policy. 

''Well,  if  you  must  know,  that  man  has  escaped,  and 
I'm  thinking  the  Bishop  himself  has  had  his  foot  in  the 
mischief." 

Then  Kerry,  with  a  confused  desire  to  defend  the  Bishop, 
interrupted,  and  said,  "The  Bishop's  not  at  the  Coort — let 
me  tell  ye  that." 

Whereupon  the  coroner  smiled  with  a  large  dignity,  and 
answered,  "  I  know  it,  woman." 

"  When  did  this  happen  ?  "  said  Mona. 

"  Not  an  hour  ago ;  I  am  straight  from  Peeltown  this  minute." 

And  without  more  words  the  coroner  turned  his  back  on 
her,  and  was  gone  in  an  instant. 

When  Quayle  had  left  the  room  Kerry  lifted  both  hands ; 
her  blind  face  wore  a  curious  expression  of  mingled  pride  and 
fear.     "  It  is  the  gift,"  she  said  in  an  awesome  whisper. 

Mona  stood  a  while  in  silence  and  perplexity,  and  then 
she  said  in  tremulous  voice,  "  Keny,  don't  think  me  among 
those  that  scoff,  but  tell  me  over  again,  my  good  Kerr}%  and 
forgive  me." 

And  Kerry  told  the  story  of  her  vision  afresh,  and  Mona 
now  listened  with  eager  attention,  and  interrupted  with  fre- 
quent questions. 

"  Who  were  the  four  men  and  the  boy  }  Never  saw  their 
faces  before  ?  Never }  Not  in  the  street  ?  No  ?  Never 
heard  their  voices  ?  Ah  !  surely  you  remember  their  voices. 
Yes,  yes,  try  to  recall  them ;  try,  tiy,  my  good  Kerry.  Ah  * 
the  fishermen — they  were  the  voices  of  the  fishermen !  How 
were  you  so  long  in  remembering .''  Quilleash  }  Yes,  old 
Billy  .''  And  Crennell  .'*  Yes,  and  Teare  and  Corkell,  and  the 
boy  Davy  Fayle  }  Poor  young  Davy,  he  was  one  of  tnem  ? 
Yes  ?     Oh,  you  dear,  good  Kerry ! " 

Mona's  impassibility  was  gone,  and  her  questions,  like  liei 
breath,  came  hot  and  fast 

247 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"And  now  tell  me  what  place  they  took  him  to.  The 
mountams  ?  Yes,  but  where  ?  Never  saw  the  place  before 
in  all  your  life  ?  Why,  no,  of  course  not ;  how  could  you, 
Kerry  ?  Ah  !  don't  mind  what  I  say,  and  don't  be  angry. 
But  what  kind  of  place  }     Quick,  Kerry,  quick." 

Kerry's  blind  face  grew  solemn,  and  one  hand,  with  out- 
stretched finger,  she  raised  before  her,  as  though  to  trace  the 
scene  in  the  air,  as  she  described  the  spot  in  the  mountains 
where  the  four  men  and  the  boy  had  taken  Dan. 

"  It  was  a  great  lone  place,  mam,  with  the  sea  a-both  sides 
of  you,  and  a  great  large  mountain  aback  of  you,  and  a  small 
low  one  in  front,  and  a  deep  strame  running  under  you 
through  the  gorse,  and  another  shallow  one  coming  into  it  at 
a  slant,  and  all  whins  and  tussocks  of  the  lush  grass  about, 
and  maybe  a  willow  by  the  water's  side,  with  the  sally-buds 
hanging  dead  from  the  boughs,  and  never  a  stick,  nor  a  sign 
of  a  house,  nor  a  bam,  but  the  ould  tumbled  cabin  where 
they  took  him,  and  only  the  sea's  roar  afar  away,  and  the 
sheep  bleating,  and  maybe  the  mountain  geese  cackling,  and 
all  to  that." 

Mona  had  listened  at  first  with  vivid  eagerness  and  a  face 
alive  with  animation,  but  as  Kerry  went  on  the  girl's  counte- 
nance saddened.  She  fell  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  said  in  a 
tone  of  pain  and  impatience  — 

"  Oh,  Kerry,  you  have  told  me  nothing.  What  you  say 
describes  nearly  every  mountain-top  in  the  island.  Was 
there  nothing  else.'*  Nothing.'*  Think.  What  about  the 
tum])le-down  house  .'^  Had  it  a  roof  .'^  Yes.'*  No  one  living 
in  it  ?  No  buildings  about  it  ?  A  shaft-head  and  gear  ? 
Oh,  Kerry,  how  slow  you  are  !  Quick,  dear  Kerry  !  An  old 
mine  ?     A  worked-out  mine  ?     Oh,  think,  and  be  sure  ! " 

Then  the  solemnity  of  the  blind  woman's  face  deepened  to 
a  look  of  inspiration.  "Think.'*  No  need  to  think,"  she 
said  in  an  altered  tone.  "Lord  bless  me,  I  see  it  again. 
There,  there  it  is — there  this  very  minute." 

She  sank  back  into  a  chair,  and  suddenly  became  motion- 
Jess  and  stiff.  Her  sightless  eyes  were  opened,  and  for  the 
first  few  moments  that  followed  thereafter  all  her  senses 
seemed  to  be  lost  to  the  things  about  her.  In  this  dream 
state  she  continued  to  talk  in  a  slow,  broken,  fearsome  voice, 
exclaiming,  protesting,  and  half-sobbing.  At  first  Mona  looketl 
on  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  and  then  she  dropped  to  her  knees 

248 


DIVINATION 

at  Kerry's  feet,  and  flung  her  arms  about  the  blind  woman 
with  the  cry  of  a  frightened  bird. 

"  Kerry,  Kerry ! "  she  called,  as  if  prompted  by  an  uncon- 
scious impulse  to  recall  her  from  the  trance  that  was  awful  to 
look  upon.  And  in  that  moment  of  contact  with  the  seer  she 
suffered  a  shock  that  penetrated  every  fibre ;  she  shuddered, 
the  cry  of  pain  died  off  in  her  throat,  her  parted  lips  whitened 
and  stiffened,  her  eyes  were  frozen  in  their  look  of  ten-or,  her 
breath  ceased  to  come,  her  heart  to  beat,  and  body  and  soul 
together  seemed  transfixed.  In  that  swift  instant  of  insensi- 
bility the  vision  passed  like  a  throb  of  blood  to  her  from  the 
blind  woman,  and  she  saw  and  knew  all. 

Half-an-hour  later,  Mona,  with  every  nerve  vibrating,  with 
eyes  of  frenzy  and  a  voice  of  fear,  was  at  Bishop's  Court  in- 
quiring for  the  Bishop. 

"  He  is  this  minute  home  from  Peel,'*  said  the  housekeeper. 

Mona  was  taken  to  the  Hbrary,  and  there  the  Bishop  sat 
before  the  fire,  staring  stupidly  into  the  flame.  His  hat  and 
cloak  had  not  yet  been  removed,  and  a  riding-whip  hung 
from  one  of  his  listless  hands. 

He  rose  as  Mona  entered.  She  flew  to  his  arms  and  while 
he  held  her  to  his  breast  his  sad  face  softened,  and  the  pent- 
up  anguish  of  her  heart  overflowed  in  tears.  Then  she  told 
him  the  tangled,  inconsequent  tale,  the  coroner's  announc- 
ment,  Kerry's  vision,  her  own  strange  dream  state,  and  all  she 
had  seen  in  it. 

As  she  spoke  the  Bishop  looked  dazed ;  he  pressed  one  hand 
on  his  forehead ;  he  repeated  her  words  after  her ;  he  echoed 
the  questions  she  put  to  him.  Then  he  lifted  his  head  to  be- 
token silence.  "  Let  me  think,"  he  said.  But  the  brief  silence 
brought  no  clearness  to  his  bewildered  brain.  He  could  not 
think ;  he  could  not  grasp  what  had  occurred,  and  the  baffled 
struggle  to  comprehend  made  the  veins  of  his  forehead  stand 
out  large  and  blue.  A  most  pitiful  look  of  weariness  came 
over  his  mellow  face,  and  he  said  in  a  low  tone  that  was  very 
touching  to  hear,  ''To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  child,  I  do 
not  follow  you — my  mind  seems  thick  and  clouded — things 

run  together  in  it — I  am  only  a  feeble  old  man  now,  and • 

But  wait "  (a  flash  of  light  crossed  his  troubled  face) ;  "  you 
say  you  recognise  the  place  in  the  mountains .'' " 

"  Yes,  as  I  saw  it  in  the  vision.  I  have  been  there  before. 
When  I  was  a  child  I  was  there  with  Dan  and  Ewan.  It  is  tar 
17  24i) 


THE   DEEMSTER 

up  the  Sulby  river,  under  Snaefell  and  over  Glen  Gramraag. 
Don't  say  it  is  foolish  and  womanish  and  only  hysteria,  dear 
uncle.     I  saw  it  all  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  now." 

"  Ah  !  no,  my  child.  If  the  patriarch  Joseph  practised  such 
divination,  is  it  for  me  to  call  it  foolishness  }  But  wait,  wait, 
let  me  think."  And  then  in  a  low  murmur,  as  if  communing 
with  himself,  he  went  on,  "  The  door  was  left  open  .  .  .  yes, 
the  door  .  .  .  the  door  was  ..." 

It  was  useless.  His  brain  was  broken,  and  would  not  link 
its  ideas.  He  was  struggling  to  pioce  together  the  fact  that 
Dan  was  no  longer  in  prison  with  the  incidents  of  his  own 
abandoned  preparations  for  his  son's  escape.  Mumbling  and 
stammering,  he  looked  vacantly  into  Mona's  face,  until  the 
truth  of  his  impotence  forced  itself  upon  her,  and  she  saw 
that  from  him  no  help  for  Dan  could  come. 

Then  with  many  tears  she  left  him  and  hastened  back  to 
Ballamona.  The  house  was  in  confusion  ;  the  Deemster  and 
Jarvis  Kerruish  had  returned,  and  the  coroner  was  with  them 
in  the  study. 

"  And  what  of  the  Peeltown  watch  }  "  the  Deemster  was 
asking  sharply.     "  Where  was  he  }  " 

"  Away  on  some  cock-and-bull  errand,  sir." 

"  By  whose  orders  }" 

"The  Bishop's." 

"  And  what  of  the  harbour-master  when  the  Ben-my-chree 
was  taken  away  from  her  moorings  .'*  " 

"  He  also  was  spirited  away." 

"  By  whom  }  " 

"  The  same  messenger — Will-as-Thom,  the  parish  clerk." 

"  Old  Gorry,  the  sumner,  gave  up  the  prison  keys  to  the 
Bishop,  you  say  "i  " 

"To  the  Bishop,  sir." 

"  And  left  him  in  the  cell,  and  found  the  door  open  and  the 
prisoner  gone  upon  his  return  t " 

"  Just  so,  sir." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Been  to  Ramsey,  sir,  and  stationed  three  men  on  the  quay 
to  see  that  nobody  leaves  the  island  by  the  Cumberland  packet 
that  sails  at  midnight." 

"Tut,  man,  who  will  need  the  packet? — the  man  has  the 
fishing-boat." 

Mona's  impatience  could  contain  itself  no  longer.  She 
250 


DIVINATION 

hurried  into  the  study  and  told  her  tale.  The  Deemster  lis- 
tened with  a  keen,  quick  sense ;  he  questioned,  cross-ques- 
tioned, and  learned  all.  This  done,  he  laughed  a  little,  coldly 
and  bitterly,  and  dismissed  the  whole  story  with  contempt. 

"  Kidnapped  }  No  such  matter.  Escaped,  woman,  escaped  ! 
And  visions,  forsooth  !  What  pedlar's  French  !  Get  away  to 
bed,  girl." 

Mona  had  no  choice  but  to  go.  Her  agitation  was  painful ; 
her  sole  thought  was  of  Dan's  peril.  She  was  a  woman,  and 
that  Dan  was  a  doomed  man  whether  in  prison  or  out  of  it, 
whether  he  had  escaped  or  been  kidnapped,  was  a  considera- 
tion that  had  faded  from  her  view.  His  life  was  in  imminent 
danger,  and  that  was  everj'thing  to  her.  She  had  tried  to  save 
him  by  help  of  the  Bishop,  and  failing  in  that  direction  she  had 
attempted  the  same  end  by  help  of  the  Deemster,  his  enemy. 

The  hours  passed  with  feet  of  lead  until  three  o'clock  struck, 
and  then  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door.  The  Deemster's  voice 
summoned  her  to  rise,  dress  quickly  and  warmly,  and  come  out 
immediately.  She  had  not  gone  to  bed,  and  in  two  minutes 
more  was  standing  hooded  and  cloaked  in  the  hall.  The 
Deemster,  Jarvis,  the  coroner,  and  seven  men  were  there. 
At  the  porch  a  horse,  saddled  and  bridled,  was  pawing  the 
gi-avel. 

Mona  understood  everything  at  a  glance.  Clearly  enough 
the  Deemster  intended  to  act  on  the  guidance  of  the  vision 
which  he  had  affected  to  despise.  Evidently  it  was  meant 
that  she  should  go  with  the  men  to  identify  the  place  she 
had  described. 

"  An  old  lead  mine  under  Snaefell  and  over  Glen  Grammag, 
d'you  say  ?  " 

''  Yes,  father."  \ 

"  Daybreak  ?  " 

'^  It  was  daybreak." 

"  You  would  know  the  place  if  you  saw  it  again  }  ** 

"Yes." 

The  Deemster  turned  to  the  coroner. 

"  Which  course  do  you  take  }  " 

"Across  Glen  Dhoo,  sir,  past  Ravensdale,  and  along  the 
mountain  path  to  the  Sherragh  Vane." 

"Come,  girl,  mount;  be  quick." 

Mona  was  lifted  to  the  saddle,  the  coroner  took  the  bridle, 
and  they  started  away,  the  seven  men  walking  behind. 

251 


THE    DEEMSTER 
CHAPTER  XXXIII 

KIDNAPPED 

What  had  happened  was  a  strange  series  of  coincidences. 
Early  that  day  the  crew  of  the  Ben-my-Chree,  in  the  mountain 
soUtude  where  they  found  freezing  and  starving  safety,  had 
sent  one  of  their  number  back  to  Sulby  village  to  buy  a 
quarter  of  meal.  Teare  was  the  man  chosen  for  the  errand, 
and,  having  compassed  it,  he  was  steahng  his  way  back  to  the 
mountains  when  he  noticed  that  great  companies  of  people 
were  coming  from  the  direction  of  Ramsey.  Lagging  behind 
the  larger  groups  on  the  road  was  a  woman  whom  he  recog- 
nised as  his  wife.  He  attracted  her  attention  without  reveal- 
ing himself  to  the  people  in  front.  She  was  returning  from 
the  Deemster's  inquest,  and  told  what  had  occurred  there ; 
that  Dan,  the  Bishop's  son,  had  surrendered,  and  that  the 
indictment  to  the  Court  of  General  Gaol  Delivery  had  been 
made  out  not  only  in  his  name,  but  in  the  names  of  the  four 
men  and  the  boy  of  the  Ben-wy-Chree. 

Teare  carried  back  to  the  mountains  a  heavier  burden  than 
the  quarter  of  meal.  His  mates  had  watched  for  him  as  he 
plodded  up  the  bank  of  the  Sulby  river,  with  the  bag  on  his 
back.     When  he  came  up  his  face  was  ominous. 

''Send  the  lad  away  for  a  spell,"  he  muttered  to  old 
Billy  Quilleash,  and  Davy  Fayle  was  sent  to  cut  gorse  for 
a  fire. 

Then  the  men  gathered  around  Teare  and  heard  what  had 
Happened.  The  disaster  had  fallen  which  they  foresaw. 
What  was  to  be  done  }  Crennell,  with  a  line  from  a  psalm, 
was  for  trusting  in  the  Lord,  and  old  Quilleash,  with  an  oath, 
was  for  trusting  in  his  heels.  After  a  pause  Teare  propounded 
his  scheme.  It  centred  in  Dan.  Dan  with  his  confession  was 
their  sole  danger.  Once  rid  of  Dan  they  were  as  free  men. 
Before  his  confession  of  guilt  their  innocence  was  beyond  his 
power  to  prove  or  their  power  to  establish.  On  his  way  up 
tVom  the  valley  Teare  had  hit  on  a  daring  adventure.  They 
were  to  break  into  the  castle  at  Peel,  take  Dan  by  force,  bring 
liira  up  to  the  mountains,  and  there  give  him  the  choice  oi 
Ufa  or  death  ;  Hfe  if  he  promised  to  plead  Not  Guilty  to  the 

252 


KIDNAPPED 

indictment,  death  if  he  adhered  to  the  resolution  by  which  he 
had  surrendered. 

The  men  gathered  closer  about  Teare,  and  with  yet  whiter 
faces.  Teare  gave  his  plan  ;  his  scheme  was  complete ;  that 
night  they  were  to  carry  it  out.  Paton  Gorry  was  the  gaoler 
at  Peel  Castle.  The  lad  Davy  was  the  old  sumner's  godchild. 
Davy  was  to  go  forth  and  smuggle  Gorry's  keys  out  of  the 
guard-room.  If  that  were  found  impossible — well,  Paton  was 
an  old  man ;  he  might  be  put  quietly  out  of  harm's  way — no 
violence — och !  no,  not  a  hap'orth.  Then  Corkell  was  son- 
in-law  of  the  watch  at  Peeltown,  and  hence  the  watch  must 
take  the  harbour-master  to  the  "  Jolly  Herrings  "  in  Castle 
Street,  while  they  themselves,  Teare,  Quilleash,  Crennell,  and 
Corkell,  took  the  Ben-my-Chree  from  her  moorings  at  the 
mouth  of  the  harbour.  On  the  west  coast  of  St.  Patrick's 
Isle  they  must  bear  down  and  run  the  dingy  ashore.  Then 
Dan  must  be  seized  in  his  cell,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and 
brought  aboard.  With  a  fair  wind — it  was  blowing  east- 
sou'-east — they  must  set  sail  for  Ramsey  Bay,  put  about  at 
Lagiie,  anchor  there,  and  go  ashore.  "  That'll  lave  it,"  said 
Teare,  "  to  raisonable  infrence  that  Mastha  Dan  had  whipped 
off  to  England  by  the  Whitehaven  packet  that  sails  at  mid- 
night from  the  quay." 

This  done,  they  were  to  find  a  horse,  strap  the  fettered 
man  to  its  back,  fetch  him  into  the  mountains  in  the  dark 
hours  of  the  night,  and  at  daybreak  try  him  solemnly  and 
justly  on  the  issue  they  had  hit  upon  of  life  or  death.  No 
violence !  Aw,  no,  all  just  and  straight !  If  so  be  that  the 
man  was  hanging  them,  they'd  do  him  justice  man  to  man 
as  fair  as  the  backbone  lies  down  the  middle  of  a  herring. 
Deemster's  justice  couldn't  be  cleaner;  no,  nor  as  clean. 
Aw,  yes,  no  violence  ! 

It  was  an  intricate  plan,  involving  many  risks,  presupposing 
many  favourable  chances.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a  logical  com- 
putation of  probabilities.  But,  good  or  bad,  logical  or  illogi- 
cal, probable  or  improbable,  easy  of  accomplishment  or  full 
of  risk  and  peril,  it  was  the  only  alternative  to  trusting  in 
the  Lord,  as  Crennell  had  suggested,  or  in  their  heels,  as 
Quilleash  had  preferred.  In  the  end  they  took  it,  and  made 
ready  to  act  on  it. 

As  the  men  arrived  at  their  conclusion  Dayy  Fayle  was  re- 
turning with  an  armful  of  withered  gorse  for  a  fire.     The  first 

253 


THE   DEEMSTER 

move  in  that  night's  adventure  was  to  be  made  by  him. 
"  Lave  the  lad  to  me/'  whispered  Quilleash,  and  straifi^htway 
he  tackled  Davy.  Veracity  was  not  conspicuous  in  the  ex- 
planation that  the  old  salt  made.  Poor  Mastha  Dan  had  been 
nabbed,  bad  sess  to  it,  and  jiggered  up  in  Peel  Castle.  He 
would  be  hanged  sarten  sure.  Aw,  safe  for  it,  if  some  chaps 
didn't  make  an  effort  immadient.  They  meant  to  do  it,  too. 
Ay,  that  very  everin  !  Wouldn't  they  let  him  help  ?  Well, 
pozzible,  pozzible.  They  wasn't  no  objection  to  that.  Thus 
Davy  fell  an  eager  victim  to  a  plan  that  was  not  propounded 
to  him.  If  saving  Mastha  Dan  from  the  dirts  that  had  nabbed 
him  was  the  skame  that  was  goin',  why  nothin'  would  hould 
him  but  he  would  be  in  it.  ''  Be  aisy  with  the  loblolly  boy 
and  you  have  him,"  whispered  old  Billy  behind  the  back  of 
his  hand,  as  he  spat  a  long  jet  from  his  quid. 

Relieved  of  doubt  as  to  their  course  of  action,  they  built  a 
fire  and  warmed  themselves,  and  with  water  from  the  river 
below  they  made  cold  porridge  of  the  meal,  and  ate  and 
drank,  and  waited  for  the  night.  The  darkness  came  early, 
it  was  closing  in  at  four  o'clock.  Then  the  men  smothered 
their  fire  with  turf  and  earth  and  set  out  for  Peeltown.  Their 
course  was  over  Golden,  and  between  Greeba  and  Beary,  to  the 
breast  of  Slieu  Whallin,  and  then  down  to  St.  Patrick's  Isle 
by  the  foot  of  Corrin's  hill.  It  was  twelve  miles  over  hill  and 
dale,  through  the  darkness  and  the  muggy  air  of  the  winter's 
night.  They  had  to  avoid  the  few  houses  and  to  break  their 
[)ace  when  footsteps  came  their  way.  But  they  covered  the 
distance  in  less  than  four  hours.  At  eight  o'clock  they  Avere 
standing  together  on  the  south  of  the  bridge  that  crosses  the 
Neb  river  at  the  top  of  Peel  'harbour.  There  they  separated. 
Corkell  went  off  to  the  market-place  by  a  crooked  alley  from 
the  quay  to  find  the  watch,  and  dispose  of  him.  When  the 
harbour-master  had  been  removed,  Corkell  was  to  go  to  the 
Ben-mij-Chree,  which  was  moored  in  deep  water  at  the  end 
of  the  wooden  pier,  open  the  scuttle  on  the  south,  and  put 
the  lamp  to  it  as  a  signal  of  safety  to  Quilleash,  Teare,  and 
Crennell  above  the  bridge  on  the  headland  opposite.  They 
were  then  to  come  aboard.  Davy  Fayle  took  the  south  quay 
to  St.  Patrick's  Isle.  It  was  now  the  bottom  of  the  ebb  tide, 
and  Davy  was  to  wade  the  narrow  neck  that  divided  the  isle 
from  the  mainland.  Perhaps  he  might  light  on  a  boat ;  per- 
haps cross  dry-shod.     In  half  an  hour  he  was  to  be  on  the 

254 


KIDNAPPED 

west  of  the  castle,  just  under  a  spot  known  as  the  Giant's 
Grave,  and  there  the  four  men  were  to  come  ashore  to  him 
in  the  dingy.  Meantime  he  was  to  see  old  Paton  Gorry  and 
generally  take  the  soundings.     Thus  they  parted. 

Davy  found  the  water  low  and  the  ford  dry.  He  crossed 
it  as  noiselessly  as  he  could,  and  reached  the  rocks  of  the  isle. 
It  was  not  so  dark  but  he  could  descry  the  dim  outlines  of 
the  ruined  castle.  A  flight  of  steps  ascended  from  the  water's 
edge  to  the  portcullis.  Davy  crept  up.  He  had  prepared  to 
knock  at  the  old  notched  door  under  the  arch,  but  he  found 
it  standing  open.  He  stood  and  listened.  At  one  moment 
he  thought  he  heard  a  movement  behind  him.  It  was  darkest 
of  all  under  these  thick  walls.  He  went  on ;  he  passed  the 
doorway  that  is  terrible  with  the  tradition  of  the  Moddey 
Dhoo.  As  he  went  by  the  door  he  turned  his  head  to  it  in 
the  darkness,  and  once  again  he  thought  he  heard  something 
stir.  This  time  the  sound  came  from  before  him.  He  gasped, 
and  had  almost  screamed.  He  stretched  his  arms  towards 
the  sound.     There  was  nothing.     All  was  still  once  more. 

Davy  stepped  forward  into  the  courtyard.  His  feet  fell 
softly  on  the  grass  that  grew  there.  At  length  he  reached 
the  guard-room.  Once  more  he  had  lifted  his  hand  to  knock, 
and  once  more  he  found  the  door  open.  He  looked  into  the 
room.  It  was  empty ;  a  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  a  form 
was  drawn  up  in  front  of  it ;  a  pipe  lay  on  a  bare  deal  table. 
"  He  has  gone  down  to  the  cell,"  Davy  told  himself,  and  he 
made  his  way  to  the  steps  that  led  to  the  dungeon.  But  he 
stopped  again,  and  his  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  There 
could  now  be  no  doubt  but  some  one  was  approaching.  There 
was  the  faint  jingle  as  of  keys.  "Paton!  Paton!"  Davy 
called  fearfully.  There  was  no  answer,  but  the  footsteps  came 
on.  "  Who  is  there  }  "  he  cried  again  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 
At  the  next  instant  a  man  passed  in  the  darkness,  and  Davy 
saw  and  knew  him.     It  was  the  Bishop. 

Davy  dropped  to  his  knees.  A  moment  afterwards  the 
Bishop  was  gone  through  the  outer  gate  and  down  the  steps. 
His  footsteps  ceased,  and  then  there  were  voices,  followed  by 
the  plash  of  an  oar,  and  then  all  was  silence  once  more,  save 
for  the  thick  boom  of  the  sea  that  came  up  from  the  rocks. 

Davy  rose  to  his  feet  and  turned  towards  the  steps  that  led 
down  to  the  door  of  the  dungeon.  A  light  came  from  below. 
The  door  was  open  also,  and  stretching  himself  full  length  on 

255 


THE   DEEMSTER 

to  the  ground  Davy  could  see  into  the  cell.  On  the  floor 
there  was  a  lantern,  and  beside  it  a  bundle  lay.  Dan  was 
there ;  he  was  lying  on  the  stone  couch ;  he  was  alone. 

Breathless  and  trembling  Davy  rose  again  and  fled  out  of 
the  old  castle  and  along  the  rocky  causeway  to  a  gullet  under 
the  Giant's  Grave.     There  the  men  were  waiting  for  him. 

''  The  place  is  bewitched,"  he  said  with  quick-coming  breath; 
and  he  told  how  every  door  was  open,  and  not  a  soul  was  in 
the  castle  except  Dan.  The  men  heard  him  with  evident 
terror.  Corkell  had  just  told  them  a  similar  story.  The  watch 
and  the  harbour-master  had  both  been  removed  before  he  had 
gone  in  search  of  them.  Everything  seemed  to  be  done  to 
their  hands.  Nothing  was  left  to  them  to  do  but  simply  to 
walk  into  the  castle  and  carry  out  their  design.  This  terri- 
fied them.  "  It's  a  fate,"  Corkell  whispered  ;  and  Crennell,  in 
white  awe  of  the  unseen  hand  that  was  helping  them,  was 
still  for  trusting  in  the  Lord.  Thus  they  put  their  heads  to- 
gether. Quilleash  was  first  to  recover  from  superstitious  fears. 
''  Come,  lay  down,  and  no  blather,"  he  said,  and  stalked  reso- 
lutely forward,  carrying  a  sack  and  a  coil  of  rope.  The  other 
men  followed  him  in  silence.  Davy  was  ordered  to  stay  be- 
hind with  the  small  boat. 

They  found  everything  as  the  lad  had  left  it ;  the  notched 
door  of  the  portcullis  was  open,  the  door  of  the  guard-room 
was  open,  and  when  they  came  to  the  steps  of  the  dungeon 
the  door  there  was  also  open.  A  moment  they  stood  and 
listened,  and  heard  no  sound  from  below  but  a  light,  regular 
breathing,  as  of  one  man  only.  Then  they  went  quietly  down 
the  steps  and  into  the  cell.  Dan  was  asleep.  At  sight  of 
him,  lying  alone  and  unconscious,  their  courage  wavered  a 
moment.  The  unseen  hand  seemed  to  be  on  them  still.  "  I 
tell  thee  it's  a  fate,"  Corkell  whispered  again  over  Quilleash's 
shoulder.  In  half  a  minute  the  sleeping  man  was  bound  hand 
and  foot,  and  the  sack  was  thrown  over  his  head.  At  the  first 
touch  he  awoke  and  tried  to  rise,  but  four  men  were  over  his 
prostrate  body,  and  they  overpowered  him.  He  cried  lustily, 
but  there  was  none  to  hear.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it  the  men  were  carrying  Dan  out  of  the  cell.  The 
lantern  they  left  on  the  floor,  and  in  their  excitement  they 
did  not  heed  the  parcel  that  lay  by  it. 

Over  the  courtyard,  through  the  gate,  along  the  ledge 
under  the  crumbling  walls  they  stumbled  and  plunged  in  the 

256 


KIDNAPPED 

darkness.  They  reached  the  boat  and  pushed  off.  Ten 
minutes  afterwards  they  were  aboard  the  Ben-my-Chree,  and 
were  beating  down  the  bay. 

Dan  recognised  the  voices  of  the  men,  and  reahsed  his 
situation.  He  did  not  shout  again.  The  sack  over  his  head 
was  of  coarse  fibre,  admitting  the  air,  and  he  could  breathe 
through  it  without  difficulty.  He  had  been  put  to  lie  on  one  of 
the  bunks  in  the  cabin,  and  he  could  see  the  tossing  light  of 
the  horn  lantern  that  hung  from  the  deck  planks.  When  the 
boat  rolled  in  the  strong  sea  that  was  running  he  could  some- 
times see  the  lights  on  the  land  through  the  open  scuttle. 

With  a  fair  wind  for  the  Point  of  Ayre,  full  sail  was 
stretched.  Corkell  stood  to  the  tiller,  and,  when  all  went 
smoothly,  the  three  men  turned  in  below,  and  lit  a  fire  in  the 
stove,  and  smoked.  Then  Davy  Fayle  came  down  with  eyes 
dull  and  sick.  He  had  begun  to  doubt,  and  to  ask  questions 
that  the  men  could  not  answer.  What  for  was  Mastha  Dan  tied 
up  like  a  haythen  ?  And  what  for  the  sack  }  But  the  men 
were  in  no  humour  for  cross-examination.  No  criss-crossing  ! 
The  imperent  young  idiot  wastrel,  let  hijn  keep  his  breatli  to 
cool  his  porridge.  To  quiet  the  lad  the  men  plied  him  with 
liquor,  and  at  the  second  draught  he  was  reeling  drunk.  Then 
he  laughed  a  wild  laugh,  and  sang  a  mad  song,  and  finally 
stood  up  to  dance.  It  was  a  grim  sight,  but  it  was  soon  ended, 
and  Davy  was  put  to  sleep  in  another  of  the  bunks.  Then  two 
hours  passed,  and  there  was  some  growling  and  quarrelling. 

Crennell  and  Teare  went  up  on  deck.  Quilleash  remained 
below,  sitting  before  the  stove  cleaning  with  oil  and  a  rag  a 
fowling-piece  that  Dan  had  brought  aboard  at  the  beginning  of 
the  herring  season.  Sometimes  he  crooned  a  Manx  carval,  and 
sometimes  whistled  it,  as  he  worked,  chewing  his  quid  mean- 
time, and  glancing  at  intervals  at  Dan's  motionless  figure  on 
the  bunk : — 

"  With  pain  we  record 

The  year  of  our  Lord, 
Sixteen  hundred  and  sixty  and  sayven. 

When  it  so  come  to  pass 

A  good  fishing  there  wass 
Off  Dooglas,  and  a  wonderful  say  son.** 

There  was  no  other  sound  in  the  cabin,  except  Davy's  heavy 
breathing,  and  the  monotonous  beat  of  the  water  at  the  boat's 

257 


THE  DEEMSTER 

bow.  Dan  lay  as  quiet  as  the  dead.  Never  once  had  he  spoken 
or  been  spoken  to. 

The  boat  was  flying  before  the  wind.  The  sky  had  cleared, 
and  the  stars  were  out,  and  the  lights  on  the  shore  could  be 
plainly  seen.  Orrisdale,  Jurby,  and  the  Rue  went  by,  and  when 
Bishop's  Court  was  passed  the  light  in  the  library  window 
burned  clear  and  strong  over  the  sea.  Towards  ten  o'clock  the 
lighthouse  on  the  Point  of  Ayre  was  rounded,  and  then  the  boat 
had  to  bear  down  the  Ramsey  Bay  in  tacks.  Before  eleven  they 
were  passing  the  town,  and  could  see  the  lights  of  the  Cumber- 
land packet  as  she  lay  by  the  quay.  It  was  then  three-quarter 
tide.  In  half  an  hour  more  the  lugger  was  put  about  at  Port 
Lague,  and  there  Dan  was  taken  ashore  by  Teare  and  Crennell. 
Quilleash  went  with  them,  carrying  the  fowling-piece. 

Corkell  and  Davy  Fayle,  who  had  recovered  from  his  stupor, 
were  to  take  the  Ben-my-Chree  back  into  Ramsey  Bay,  to  drop 
anchor  under  Ballure,  and  then  to  rejoin  their  companions  at 
Lague  before  twelve  o'clock.  This  was  to  divert  suspicion, 
and  to  provoke  the  inference,  when  the  fishing-boat  would  be 
found  next  morning,  that  Dan  had  escaped  to  England  by  the 
Whitehaven  packet. 

The  Ben-mif-Chree  sailed  off  with  Corkell  and  Davy.  Teare 
went  in  search  of  a  horse,  Quilleash  and  Crennell  remained 
on  the  shore  at  Lague  with  Dan.  It  was  a  bleak  and  desolate 
place,  with  nothing  to  the  south  but  the  grim  rocks  of  the  Table- 
land Head,  and  with  never  a  house  to  the  north  nearer  than 
Folieu,  which  was  half  a  mile  away.  The  night  was  now  bitterly 
cold.  The  stars  were  gone,  the  darkness  was  heavy,  and  a 
nipping  frost  was  in  the  dense  atmosphere.  But  the  wind  had 
dropped,  and  every  sound  sent  a  dull  echo  through  the  air.  Tlie 
two  men  waited  and  listened.  Thus  far  all  had  gone  well  with 
them,  but  what  remained  to  do  was  perilous  enough.  If  Corkell 
and  the  lad  happened  to  be  seen  when  coming  from  the  boat,  if 
Teare  were  caught  in  the  act  of  borrowinga  horse  without  leave, 
then  all  would  be  over  with  them.    Their  suspense  was  keen. 

Presently  there  came  up  to  them  from  the  bay,  over  the  dull 
rumble  of  the  waves  on  the  shore,  a  quick  creaking  sound, 
followed  by  a  splash  and  then  a  dead  roll.  They  knew  it  was 
the  anchor  being  slipped  to  its  berth.  Soon  afterwards  there 
came  from  the  land  to  the  south  the  sharp  yap  of  dogs,  followed 
at  a  short  interval  by  the  heavy  beat  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
road.     Was  it  Teare  with  the  horse  ?   Was  he  pursued?    The 

258 


KIDNAPPED 

men  listened,  but  could  hear  no  other  noise.  Then  there  carae 
through  the  dense  air  the  muffled  sound  of  a  bell  ringing  at  the 
quay.  It  was  the  first  of  three  bells  that  were  rung  on  the 
Cumberland  packet  immediately  before  it  set  sail. 

The  horse  behind  drew  nearer,  the  bell  in  front  rang  again. 
Then  Teare  came  up  leading  a  big  draught  mare  by  the  bridle. 
He  had  been  forced  to  take  it  from  the  stable  at  Lague,  and 
in  getting  it  away  he  had  aroused  the  dogs  ;  but  he  had  not 
been  followed,  and  all  was  safe.  The  bell  rang  a  third  time, 
and  immediately  a  red  light  crept  out  from  the  quay  towards 
tlie  sea,  which  lay  black  as  a  raven  below.  The  Cumberland 
packet  had  gone. 

At  that  moment  Corkell  and  Davy  Fayle  returned,  Corkell 
holding  Davy  by  the  neck  of  his  guernsey.  The  lad  had 
begun  to  give  signs  of  a  mutinous  spirit,  which  the  man  had 
suppressed  by  force.  Davy's  eyes  flashed,  but  he  was  other- 
wise quiet  and  calm. 

"What  for  is  all  this,  you  young  devil .^"  said  Quilleash. 
"  What  d'ye  mean  ?  Out  with  it,  quick  !  what  tricks  now  } 
D his  fool's  face,  what  for  does  he  look  at  me  like  that }" 

"  Dowse  that,  Billy,  and  bear  a  hand  and  be  quiet,"  said 
Crennell.  • 

"The  young  pauper's  got  the  imperence  of  sin,"  said 
Quilleash. 

Then  the  men  lifted  Dan  on  to  the  back  of  the  big  mare, 
and  strapped  him  with  his  covered  face  to  the  sky.  Never  a 
word  was  spoken  to  him,  and  never  a  word  did  he  speak. 

"  Let's  make  a  slant  for  it,"  said  Teare,  and  he  took  the 
bridle.  Corkell  and  Crennell  walked  on  either  side  of  tie 
horse.  Quilleash  walked  behind,  carrying  the  fowling-piece 
over  his  left  shoulder.     Davy  was  at  his  right  hand. 

The  journey  thereafter  was  long  and  heavy.  They  took 
the  path  that  is  to  the  north  by  Barrule  and  Cjag  Ouyre,  and 
runs  above  Glen  Auldyn  and  winds  round  to  the  south  of 
Snaefell.  Ten  miles  they  plodded  on  in  the  thick  darkness 
and  the  cold,  with  only  the  rumbling  rivers  for  company,  and 
with  the  hidden  mountains  making  unseen  ghosts  about  them. 
On  they  went,  with  the  horse  between  them  taking  its  steady 
stride  that  never  varied  and  never  failed,  even  when  the  rivers 
crossed  the  path  and  their  own  feet  stumbled  into  ruts.  On 
and  on,  hour  after  hour,  until  their  weary  limbs  dragged  after 
them,  and  their  gossip  ceased,  and  even  their  growling  and 

259 


THE   DEEMSTER 

quarrelling  was  no  more  heard.  Then  on  and  still  on  in  the 
gruesome  silence. 

Under  the  breast  of  Snaefell  they  came  into  the  snow  of 
two  days  ago,  which  had  disappeared  in  the  valleys  but  still 
lay  on  the  mountains,  and  was  now  crisp  under  their  feet.  It 
seemed,  as  they  looked  down  in  the  darkness,  to  pass  beneath 
them  like  short  smoky  vapour  that  dazed  the  eyes  and  made 
the  head  giddy.  Still  higher  the  sound  of  running  waters 
suddenly  stopped,  for  the  rivers  were  frozen  and  their  voices 
silenced.  But  the  wind  blew  more  strongly  as  they  ascended 
the  chill  heights. 

Sometimes  at  the  top  of  a  long  raise  they  stopped  to  breathe 
the  horse,  and  then,  with  no  sound  above  or  around  except  the 
shrill  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  gorse,  their  courage  began  to 
fail.      Ghostly  imaginings  would  not  be  kept  down. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  Lockman  ?  "  said  Crennell  beneath 
his  breath. 

"  I  never  come  agen  him,"  said  Quilleash.  ''  When  I  see 
anything  at  night  on  the  mountains  I  allis  lave  it  alone." 

The  other  men  shuddered,  and  forthwith  began  to  whistle 
right  lustily. 

Sometimes  they  passed  a  mountain  sh^ep-pen,  and  the  sheep 
being  disturbed  would  bleat.  Sometimes  a  dog  at  a  distant 
house  would  hear  them  and  bark ;  and  even  that,  though  it 
was  a  signal  of  danger,  was  also  a  sort  of  human  companion- 
ship on  the  grim  mountain-side. 

It  was  a  dreary  walk,  and  to  Dan,  bound  hand  and  foot  on 
the  horse,  it  was  a  painful  ride — a  cold  one  it  could  not  be, 
for  the  awkward  motion  brought  warmth.  The  night  wore  on, 
and  the  air  grew  keener ;  the  men's  beards  became  crisp  with 
the  frost. 

At  length  the  silent  company  rounded  Snaefell  to  the  north 
of  Cronk-y-Vane  and  Beinn-y-Phott.  Then  Teare  at  the 
horse's  head  twisted  about.  "Do  we  take  the  ould  mine 
shed  for  it  .'* "  he  asked. 

"  Ay,"  said  Quilleash. 

Their  journey  was  almost  ended.  The  sky  over  the  sea 
behind  them  was  then  dabbled  with  grey,  and  a  smell  of 
dawn  was  coming  down  from  the  mountains. 


260 


A   RUDE   TRIBUNAL 
CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  RUDE  TRIBUNAL 

The  course  taken  by  the  coroner  and  his  seven  men,  with 
Mona  on  the  horse,  came  to  a  triangle  of  mountain  paths  above 
a  farm  known  as  the  Sherragh  Vane.  One  path  wound  close 
under  the  west  foot  of  Snaefell,  another  followed  the  bed  of 
the  river  that  ran  through  a  glen  called  Crammag,  and  the 
third  joined  these  two  by  crossing  the  breast  of  Beinn-y-Phott. 
At  the  acute  angle  of  the  Sherragh  Vane  the  coroner  drew  up. 

"  Can  any  one  see  the  lead  shaft }  "  he  asked.  None  could 
see  it.  The  darkness  had  lifted  away,  and  the  crown  of 
Snaefell  was  bare  against  the  sky,  like  an  islet  of  green  float- 
ing over  a  cloud  of  vapour.  But  the  mists  still  lay  thick  on 
the  moorlands,  and  even  the  high  glens  were  obscure. 

"  It  must  be  yonder,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  up  the  river," 
said  the  coroner. 

The  lead  mine  was  in  the  south-east  angle,  of  the  triangle 
of  paths,  under  the  south-west  of  Snaefell  and  the  north  of 
Beinn-y-Phott.  For  some  minutes  the  company  was  at  a 
stand  while  the  coroner  considered  their  movements. 

Mona's  impatience  was  manifest.    "  Let  us  push  on,"  she  said. 

The  coroner  merely  eyed  her  largely  and  resumed  his  de- 
liberations. 

"  Oh,  how  we  waste  our  time  ! "  she  said  again.  "  If  the 
lead  mine  is  there,  what  have  we  to  do  but  reach  it  ? " 

The  coroner  with  an  insolent  smile  inquired  if  the  lady  felt 
the  cold. 

"  He  is  in  danger  for  his  life,  and  here  we  waste  the  pre- 
cious minutes  in  idle  talk,"  she  answered. 

"Danger  for  his  life,"  the  coroner  echoed,  and  laughed 
coldly.  Then  in  a  tone  of  large  meaning  he  added,  "  Possible, 
possible,"  and  smiled  at  his  own  subtle  thought.  . 

Mona's  anxiety  mastered  her  indignation. 

"  Look,  the  mist  is  lifting.  See,  there  is  the  shed — there 
in  the  gap  between  the  hills,  and  it  is  the  very  place  I  saw. 
Q)me,  make  haste — look,  it  is  daylight." 

"Be  aisy,  be  aisy.  If  they're  in  yonder  shed,  they  are 
packed  as  safe  as  herrings  in  a  barrel,"  said  the  coroner. 

2fil 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Then  he  divided  his  forces.  Three  men  he  sent  down  the 
path  of  the  Glen  Crammag.  Two  he  left  where  they  then 
stood  to  guard  that  outlet  to  the  Curraghs  of  the  north  and 
west.  Two  others  were  to  creep  along  the  path  under  Snae- 
fell,  and  shut  out  the  course  to  the  sea  and  the  lowlands  on 
the  south  and  east.  He  himself  would  walk  straight  up  to 
the  shed,  and  his  seven  men,  as  they  saw  him  approach  it,  were 
to  close  quickly  in  from  the  three  corners  of  the  triangle. 

"  Is  it  smoke  that's  rising  above  the  shed  ?  A  fire  '* 
Possible.  He  thinks  he's  safe,  I'll  go  bail.  Och  !  yes,  and 
maybe  eating  and  drinking  and  making  aisy.  Now,  men, 
away  with  you." 

Within  the  shed  itself  at  that  moment  there  was  as  grim  a 
scene  as  the  eye  of  man  has  yet  looked  upon.  The  place  was 
a  large  square  building  of  two  rooms,  one  on  the  ground  level 
and  the  other  above  it,  the  loft  being  entered  by  a  trap  in  the 
floor  with  a  wooden  ladder  down  the  wall.  It  had  once  served 
as  gear-shed  and  office,  stable  and  store,  but  now  it  was  bare 
and  empty.  In  the  wall  looking  east  there  was  a  broad  open 
ing  without  dopr,  and  in  the  wall  looking  north  a  narrow 
opening  without  window. 

To  a  hasp  in  the  jamb  of  the  doorway  the  big  mare  was 
tethered,  and  in  the  draught  between  the  two  openings  the 
lad  Davy  with  wandering  mind  was  kindling  a  fire  of  gorse 
over  two  stones.  The  smoke  filled  the  place,  and  through  its 
dense  volumes  in  the  dusk  of  that  vaporous  dawn  the  faces  of 
the  men  were  bleared  and  green  and  haggard.  The  four 
fishermen  stood  in  a  group  together,  with  old  Quilleash  a  pace 
to  the  fore,  the  fowling-piece  in  his  Jiand,  its  butt  on  the 
ground.  Before  him  and  facing  him,  two  paces  in  front,  stood 
Dan,  his  arms  still  bound  to  his  sides,  his  head  uncovered,  and 
his  legs  free.     There  was  a  gaunt  earnestness  in  every  face. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  old  Quilleash.  ''  We're  going  to  judge 
and  jury  you,  but  all  fair  and  square  as  God  is  above  us,  and 
doing  nothing  that  we  can't  answer  for  when  the  big  da}^ 
comes  and  every  man  has  to  toe  his  mark.  D'ye  hear  what 
we're  saying,  sir  ?  " 

Dan  moved  his  head  slightly  by  way  of  assent. 

"  We've  trapped  you,  it's  true,  and  fetched  you  by  force,  that's 
sartin  ;  but  we  mean  to  be  just  by  you,  and  no  violence  ;  and  it's 
spakin'  the  truth  we're  going  to  do,  and  never  a  word  of  a  lie." 

262 


A   RUDE  TRIBUNAL 

The  other  men  muttered  "  Ay,  ay ; "  and  Quilleash  went 
on :  "  We're  chaps  what  beUeves  in  a  friend,  and  buckin'  up 
for  them  as  bucks  up  for  you,  and  being  middlin'  staunch,  and 
all  to  that ;  but  we're  after  doing  it  once  too  often." 

"  So  we  are,"  said  Crennell,  and  the  others  muttered  again, 
"Ay,  ay." 

Quilleash  spat  behind  his  hand  and  continued  :  "The  long 
and  short  of  it  is  that  you're  goin'  middlin*  straight  for  hang- 
ing us,  and  it  isn't  natheral  as  we're  to  stand  by  and  see  it 
done." 

Dan  lifted  his  face  from  the  ground.  "  I  meant  to  do  you 
no  harai,  my  good  fellows,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  Meaning's  meaning,  but  doing's  doing,  and  we've  heard 
all  that's  going,"  said  Quilleash.  "  You've  surrendered  and 
confessed,  and  the  presentment  is  agen  us  all,  and  what's  in 
for  you  is  in  for  us." 

"  But  you  are  innocent  men.     What  need  you  fear  ?  " 

"  Innocent  we  be,  but  where  the  Deemster  comes  there's 
not  a  hap'orth  to  choose  between  you  and  us." 

Dan's  face  flushed,  and  he  answered  warmly,  "  Men,  don't 
let  your  miserable  fears  make  cowards  of  you.  What  have 
you  done  }  Nothing.  You  are  innocent.  Yet  how  are  you 
bearing  yourselves  }  Like  guilty  men.  If  I  were  innocent 
do  you  think  I  would  skulk  aw^ay  in  the  mountains.'*" 

"  Aisy,  sir,  take  it  aisy.  Maybe  you'd  rather  run  like  a  rat 
into  a  trap.  Cowards.'*  Well,  pozzible,  pozzible.  There's 
nothing  like  having  a  wife  and  a  few  childers  for  making  a 
brave  chap  into  a  bit  of  a  skunk.  But  we'll  lave  '  cowards  ' 
alone,  if  you  plaze." 

Quilleash  made  a  dignified  sweep  of  the  back  of  his  hand, 
while  the  other  men  said,  "  Better,  better." 

"  Why  have  you  brought  me  here  }  "  said  Dan, 

"  There  isn't  a  living  sowl  knows  where  you  are,  and  when 
they  find  you're  missing  at  the  castle  they'll  say  you've  thought 
better  of  it  and  escaped." 

"Why  have  you  brought  me  here  ?"  Dan  repeated. 

"The  Whitehaven  boat  left  Ramsey  after  we  dropped 
anchor  in  the  bay  last  night,  and  they'll  say  you've  gone  off 
to  England." 

"Tell  me  why  you  have  brought  me  to  this  place." 

"  We  are  alone  and  can  do  anything  we  Uke  with  you,  and 
nobody  a  hap'orth  the  wiser." 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

Then  they  told  him  of  the  alternative  of  life  or  death. 
There  was  nothing  against  him  but  his  own  confession.  If  he 
but  held  his  tongue  there  was  not  enough  evidence  to  hang  a 
cat.  Let  him  only  promise  to  plead  "  Not  guilty  "  when  the 
trial  came  on,  and  they  were  ready  to  go  back  with  him  and 
stand  beside  him.     If  not 

"  What  then  ?  "  Dan  asked. 

'^Then  we'll  be  forced "  said  Quilleash,  and  he  stopped. 

"Well?" 

"  I'm  saying  we'll  be  forced "     He  stopped  again. 

"  Out  with  it,  man  alive,"  Teare  broke  in — "  forced  to  shoot 
him  like  a  dog." 

"  Well,  that's  only  spakin'  the  truth  anyway,"  said  Quilleash 
quietly. 

Davy  Fayle  leapt  up  from  the  fire  with  a  cry  of  horror.  But 
Dan  was  calm  and  resolute. 

"  Men,  you  don't  know  what  you're  asking.    I  cannot  do  it." 

"  Aisy,  sir,  aisy,  and  think  agen.  You  see  we're  in  if  you're 
in,  and  who's  to  know  who's  deepest }  " 

"God  knows  it,  and  He  will  never  allow  you  to  suffer." 

"  We've  child ers  and  wives  looking  to  us,  and  who  can  tell 
how  they'd  fend  in  the  world  if  we  were  gone  ?  " 

"  You're  brave  fellows,  and  I'm  sorry  for  the  name  I  gave  you." 

"  Shoo  !  Lave  that  alone.  Maybe  we  spoke  back.  Let's 
come  to  the  fac's." 

They  stated  their  case  again  and  with  calm  deliberation. 
He  asked  how  it  could  mend  their  case  if  his  life  was  taken. 
They  answered  him  that  they  would  go  back  and  surrender, 
and  stand  their  trial  and  be  acquitted.  Those  four  men  were 
as  solemn  a  tribunal  as  ever  a  man  stood  before  for  life  or 
death.  Not  a  touch  of  passion,  hardly  a  touch  of  warmth, 
disturbed  their  rude  sense  of  justice. 

"  We're  innocent,  but  we're  in  it,  and  if  you  stand  to  it  we 
must  stand  to  it,  and  what's  the  use  of  throwing  your  life  away  }" 

Dan  looked  into  their  haggard  faces  without  wavering.  He 
had  gone  too  far  to  go  back  now.     But  he  was  deeply  moved. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  God  I  could  do  what  you  ask, 
but  I  cannot,  and  besides,  the  Almighty  will  not  let  any  harm 
come  to  you." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  old  Quilleash  said  with  quiet 
gravity,  "  I'm  for  religion  myself,  and  singing  hymns  at  whiles, 

264 


A    RUDE   TRIBUNAL 

and  maybe  a  bit  of  a  spell  at  the  ould  Book,  but  when  it  comes 
to  trusting  for  life,  d d  if  I  don't  look  for  summat  sub- 
stantial." 

As  little  was  their  stubborn  purpose  to  be  disturbed  by 
spiritual  faith  as  Dan's  resolution  was  to  be  shaken  by  bodily 
terrors.  They  gave  him  as  long  to  decide  as  it  took  a  man  to 
tell  a  hundred.  The  counting  was  done  by  Teare  amid  dead 
silence  of  the  others. 

Then  it  was  that,  thinking  rapidly,  Dan  saw  the  whole 
terrible  issue.  His  mind  went  back  to  the  visit  of  the  Bishop 
to  the  castle,  and  to  the  secret  preparations  that  had  been 
made  for  his  own  escape.  He  remembered  that  the  sumner 
had  delivered  up  his  keys  to  the  Bishop,  and  that  the  Bishop 
had  left  the  door  of  the  cell  open.  In  a  quick  glance  at  the 
facts  he  saw  but  too  plainly  that  if  he  never  returned  to 
take  his  trial,  it  would  be  the  same  to  his  father  as  if  he  had 
accepted  the  means  of  escape  that  had  been  offered  him.  The 
Bishop,  guilty  in  purpose,  but  innocent  in  fact,  would  then 
be  the  slave  of  any  scoundrel  who  could  learn  of  his  design. 
Though  his  father  had  abandoned  his  purpose,  he  would  seem 
to  have  pursued  it,  and  the  people  whom  he  had  bribed  to 
help  him  would  but  think  that  he  had  used  other  instruments. 
There  could  be  only  one  explanation  of  his  absence — that  he 
escaped ;  only  one  means  of  escape — the  Bishop ;  only  one 
way  of  saving  the  Bishop  from  unmerited  and  life-long  oblo- 
quy— returning  to  his  trial;  and  only  one  condition  of  going 
back  alive — promising  to  plead  ''Not  guilty  "  to  the  charge  of 
causing  the  death  of  Ewan. 

It  was  an  awful  conflict  of  good  passions  with  passions  that 
were  not  bad.  At  one  moment  the  sophistry  took  hold  of  him 
that,  as  his  promise  was  being  extorted  by  bodily  threats,  it 
could  not  be  binding  on  his  honour ;  that  he  might  give  the 
men  the  word  they  wanted,  go  back  to  save  his  father,  and 
finally  act  at  the  trial  as  he  knew  to  be  best.  But  at  the  next 
moment  in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  himself  in  the  prisoner's  dock 
by  the  side  of  these  five  brave  fellows,  all  standing  for  their 
lives,  all  calmly  trusting  in  his  promise,  and  he  heard  himself 
giving  the  plea  that  might  send  them  to  their  deaths.  Better 
any  consequences  than  such  treachery.  Truth  it  must  be  at  all 
costs  :  truth  to  them  and  to  himself  And  as  for  the  Bishop, 
when  did  the  Almighty  ask  for  such  poor  help  as  the  lie  of  a 
blood-stained  criminal  to  save  the  honour  of  a  man  of  God  ? 
18  265 


THE   DEEMSTER 

It  was  a  terrible  crisis  of  emotion,  but  it  was  brief.  The 
counting  ended_,  and  Quilleash  called  for  the  answer. 

"No,  I  cannot  do  it — God  forgive  me,  I  wish  I  could," 
said  Dan,  in  a  burst  of  impatience. 

It  was  said.  The  men  made  no  reply  to  it.  There  was 
awful  quiet  among  them.  They  began  to  cast  lots.  Five 
copper  coins  of  equal  size,  one  of  them  marked  with  a  cross 
scratched  with  the  point  of  a  nail,  they  put  into  the  bag. 
One  after  one  they  dipped  a  hand  and  drew  out  a  coin,  and 
every  man  kept  his  fist  clenched  till  all  had  drawn.  The  lad 
was  not  for  joining,  but  the  men  threatened  him,  and  he 
yielded.     Then  all  hands  were  opened  together. 

The  lot  had  fallen  to  Davy  Fayle.  When  he  saw  this,  his 
simple  face  whitened  visibly  and  his  lip  lagged  very  low 
Old  Quilleash  handed  him  the  gun,  and  he  took  it  in  a  list- 
less way,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  was  intended. 

"  What's  goin'  doing  ?  "  he  asked  vacantly. 

The  men  told  him  that  it  was  for  him  to  do  it 

"Do  what.'*"  he  asked,  dazed  and  stupid. 

Shamefully,  and  with  a  touch  of  braggadocio,  they  told 
what  he  had  to  do,  and  then  his  vacant  face  became  suddenly 
charged  with  passion,  and  he  made  a  shriek  of  terror  and  let 
the  gun  fall.  Quilleash  picked  the  gun  from  the  ground  and 
thrust  it  back  into  Davy's  hand. 

"You've  got  to  do  it,"  he  said;  "the  lot's  fallen  to  you, 
and  it's  bad  work  flying  in  the  face  of  fate." 

At  first  Davy  cried  that  nothing  on  God's  earth  would  make 
him  do  it ;  but  suddenly  he  yielded,  took  the  gun  quickly,  and 
was  led  to  his  place  three  or  four  paces  in  front  of  where  Dan 
stood  with  his  arms  bound  at  his  sides,  his  face  of  an  ashy 
whiteness  and  his  eyes  fearful  to  look  upon. 

"  I  can't  kill  him  while  he's  tied  up  like  that,"  said  Davy. 
"  Loose  him,  and  then  I'll  shoot." 

The  men  had  been  startled  by  Davy's  sudden  acquiescence, 
but  now  they  understood  it.  Not  by  so  obvious  a  ruse  were 
they  to  be  deceived.  They  knew  full  well  that  Dan  as  a  free 
man  was  a  match  for  all  four  of  them  unarmed. 

"  You're  meaning  to  fire  over  his  head,"  they  said  to  Davy ; 
and  carried  away  by  his  excitement,  and  without  art  to  conceal 
his  intention,  the  lad  cried  hysterically,  "  That's  the  truth,  and 
80  I  am." 

The  men  put  their  heads  together,  and  there  was  some 
266 


A   RUDE   TRIBUNAL 

hurried  whispering.  At  the  next  minute  they  had  laid  hold 
of  Davy,  bound  him  as  Dan  was  bound,  and  put  him  to  stand 
at  Dan's  side.  This  they  did  with  the  thought  that  Davy 
was  now  Dan's  accomplice. 

Then  again  they  cast  lots  as  before.  This  time  the  lot  fell 
to  Quilleash.  He  took  his  stand  where  the  lad  had  stood, 
and  put  the  trigger  of  the  gun  at  cock. 

"Men,"  he  said,  "if  we  don't  take  this  man's  life  nothing 
will  hould  him  but  he'll  take  ours ;  and  it's  our  right  to  pro- 
tect ourselves,  and  the  ould  Book  will  uphold  us.  It  isn't 
murder  we're  at,  but  justice,  and  Lord  A' mighty  ha'  massy 
on  their  sowls  !  " 

"Give  him  another  chance,"  said  Teare,  and  Quilleash, 
nothing  loath,  put  his  question  again.  Dan,  with  a  glance  at 
Davy,  answered  as  before,  with  as  calm  a  voice,  though  his 
face  was  blanched  and  his  eyes  stood  out  from  their  sockets, 
and  his  lips  and  nostrils  quivered. 

Then  there  was  silence,  and  then  down  on  their  knees 
behind  Quilleash  fell  the  three  men,  Crennell,  Q)rkell,  and 
Teare.  "  Lord  ha'  massy  on  their  sowls  !  "  they  echoed,  and 
Quilleash  raised  the  gun. 

Never  a  word  more  did  Dan  say,  and  never  a  cry  or  a  sign 
came  from  Davy  Fayle.  But  Quilleash  did  not  fire.  He 
paused  and  listened,  and  turning  about  he  said  in  an  altered 
tone,  "  Where's  the  horse  }  " 

The  men  lifted  their  heads  and  pointed,  without  speaking,  to 
where  the  horse  was  tethered  by  the  doorway.  Quilleash  lis- 
tened with  head  aslant.    "  Then  who's  foot  is  that  ?  "  he  said. 

The  men  leapt  to  their  feet.  Teare  was  at  the  doorway  in 
an  instant.  "God  A' mighty,  they're  on  us!"  he  said  in  an 
affrighted  whisper. 

Then  two  of  the  others  looked,  and  saw  that  from  every  side 
the  coroner  and  his  men  were  closing  in  upon  them.  They  could 
recognise  every  man,  though  the  nearest  was  still  half  a  mile 
away.  For  a  moment  they  stared  blankly  into  each  others'  faces 
and  asked  themselves  what  was  to  be  done.  In  that  moment 
every  good  and  bad  quality  seemed  to  leap  to  their  faces. 
Corkell  and  Crennell,  seeing  themselves  outnumbered,  fell  to 
a  bout  of  hysterical  weeping.  Teare,  a  fellow  of  sterner  stuff, 
without  pity  or  ruth,  seeing  no  danger  for  them  if  Dan  were 
out  of  sight,  was  for  finishing  in  a  twinkling  what  they  had 
begun — shooting  Dan,  flinging  him  into  the  loft  above,  down 

267 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  shaft  outside,  or  into  a  manure-hole  at  the  doorway,  that 
was  full  of  slimy  filth  and  was  now  half-frozen  over. 

Quilleash  alone  kept  his  head,  and  when  Teare  had  spoken 
the  old  man  said.  No,  and  set  his  lip  firm  and  hard.  Then  Dan 
himself,  no  less  excited  than  the  men  themselves,  called  aul 
asked  how  many  they  were  that  were  coming,  Crennell  told 
him  nine — seven  men  and  the  coroner,  and  another — it  might 
be  a  woman — on  a  horse. 

''Eight  men  are  not  enough  to  take  six  of  us,"  said  Dan. 
"  Here,  cut  my  rope  and  Davy's — quick." 

When  the  men  heard  that,  and  saw  by  the  light  of  Dan's 
eyes  that  he  meant  it,  and  that  he  whose  blood  they  had  all 
but  spilled  was  ready  to  stand  side  by  side  with  them  and 
throw  in  his  lot  with  their  lot,  they  looked  stupidly  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  could  say  nothing.  But  in  another  breath 
the  evil  spirit  of  doubt  had  taken  hold  of  them,  and  Teare  was 
laughing  bitterly  in  Dan's  face. 

Crennell  looked  out  at  the  doorway  again.  "  They're  run- 
ning, we're  lost  men,"  he  said ;  and  once  more  he  set  up  his 
hysterical  weeping. 

"Dowse  that,"  said  Quilleash;  "where's  your  trustin'  now.?" 

"  Here,  Billy,"  said  Dan  eagerly,  "  cut  the  lad's  rope  and 
get  into  the  loft,  every  man  of  you." 

Without  waiting  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  this  advice, 
realising  nothing  but  that,  the  shed  was  surrounded  and  escape 
impossible,  two  of  them,  Crennell  and  Corkell,  clambered  up 
the  ladder  to  the  loft.  Old  Quilleash,  who  from  the  first 
moment  of  the  scare  had  not  budged  an  inch  from  his  place 
on  the  floor,  stood  there  still  with  the  gun  in  his  hand.  Then 
Dan,  thinking  to  free  himself  by  burning  one  strand  of  the  rope 
that  bound  him,  threw  himself  down  on  his  knees  by  the  fire  of 
gorse  and  wood,  and  held  himself  over  it  until  one  shoulder  and 
arm  and  part  of  his  breast  were  in  the  flame.  For  a  moment 
it  seemed  as  if,  bound  as  he  was,  he  must  thrust  half  his  body 
into  the  fire,  and  roll  in  it,  before  the  rope  that  tied  him  would 
ignite.  But  at  the  next  moment  he  had  leapt  to  his  feet  with 
a  mighty  effort,  and  the  rope  was  burning  over  his  arm. 

At  that  same  moment  the  coroner  and  the  seven  men,  with 
Mona  riding  behind  them,  came  up  to  the  doorway  of  the  shed. 
There  they  drew  up  in  consternation.  No  sight  on  earth  was 
less  Hke  that  they  had  looked  to  see  than  the  sight  they  then 
beheld. 

268 


THE  COURT  OF  GENERAL  GAOL  DELIVERY 

There,  in  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke,  was  Davy  Fayle,  still 
bound  and  helpless,  pale  and  speechless  with  affright ;  and 
there  was  Dan,  also  bound,  and  burning  over  one  shoulder  as 
if  the  arm  itself  were  afire,  and  straining  his  great  muscles  to 
break  the  rope  that  held  him.  Quilleash  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  his  gun  was  in  his 
hands.  Teare  was  on  the  first  rung  of  the  wall-ladder,  and 
the  two  white  faces  of  Corkell  and  Crennell  were  peering  down 
from  the  trap-hole  above. 

"  What's  all  this  }  "  said  the  coroner. 

Tlien  Teare  dropped  back  from  the  ladder  and  pointed  at 
Dan  and  said,  "  We  caught  him,  and  were  taking  him  back  to 
you,  sir.  Look,  that's  the  way  we  strapped  him.  But  he  was 
trying  to  bum  the  rope  and  give  us  the  slip." 

Dan's  face  turned  black  at  that  word  of  treachery,  and  a 
hoarse  cry  came  from  his  throat. 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  said  the  coroner,  and  his  lip  curled  as  he 
turned  to  Dan.  Davy  Fayle  shouted  vehemently  that  it  was 
a  lie,  but  Dan,  shaking  visibly  from  head  to  foot,  answered 
quietly  and  said,  "I'll  not  say  no,  coroner." 

At  that  Quilleash  stepped  out.  "But  I'll  say  no,"  he  said 
finnly.     "  He's  a  brave  man,  he  is ;  and  maybe  I'm  on'y  an 

ould  rip,  but  d me  if  I'm  going  to  lie  like  that  for  nobody 

— no,  not  to  save  my  own  sowl." 

Then  in  his  gruff  tones,  sometimes  faltering,  sometimes 
breaking  into  deep  sobs,  and  then  rising  to  deeper  oaths,  the 
old  fellow  told  all.  And  that  night  all  six  of  them — Dan,  the 
four  fishermen,  and  the  lad  Davy — were  lodged  in  the  prison 
at  Castle  Rushen. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE    COURT    OF    GENERAL   GAOL    DELIVERY 

From  Christmas-tide  onward  through  the  dark  months,  until 
a  "  dream  of  spring  "  came  once  again  on  the  slumbering  face 
of  winter,  the  six  men  lay  in  Castle  Rushen.  Rumours  from 
within  the  grey  walls  of  the  gaol  told  that  some  of  them  were 
restive  under  their  punishment,  and  that  the  spirits  of  others 
sank  under  it,  but  that  Dan  bore  up  with  the  fortitude  of 

269 


THE   DEEMSTER 

resignation,  and,  though  prone  to  much  sadness,  with  even  the 
cheerfulness  of  content.  It  was  the  duty  of  each  man  to  take 
his  turn  at  cleaning  the  cell,  and  it  was  said  that  Dan's  turn 
seemed  by  his  own  counting  to  come  frequently.  Reproaches 
he  bore  with  humility,  and  on  one  occasion  he  took  a  blow  from 
Crennell,  who  was  small  of  stature  and  had  a  slight  limp  in 
one  leg.  Constant  bickerings  were  rife  among  them,  and  Dan 
was  often  their  subject  of  quarrel,  and  still  oftener  their 
victim;  but  they  had  cheerful  hours  too,  and  sometimes  a 
laugh  together. 

Such  were  some  of  the  reports  that  made  gossip  outside, 
where  public  curiosity  and  excitement  grew  keener  as  the 
half-yearly  sitting  of  the  Court  of  General  Gaol  Delivery  drew 
nearer.  Copper  riots  and  felonies  of  all  descriptions,  disputes 
as  to  tithe,  and  arbitrations  as  to  the  modes  of  counting  the 
herrings,  sank  out  of  sight  in  prospect  of  the  trial  of  Dan  and 
his  crew.  From  Point  of  Ay  re  to  the  Calf  of  Man  it  was  the 
engrossing  topic,  and  none  living  could  remember  a  time  when 
public  feehng  ran  so  high.  The  son  of  the  Bishop  was  to  be 
tried  for  the  murder  of  the  son  of  the  Deemster,  and  a  biggei 
issue  could  no  man  conceive.  Variable  enough  was  the  popu- 
lar sympathy — sometimes  with  Dan,  sometimes  against  him, 
always  influenced  by  what  way  the  wave  of  feeling  flowed  with 
regard  to  the  Deemster  and  the  Bishop.  And  closely  were 
these  two  watched  at  every  turn. 

The  Deemster  showed  uncommon  animation,  and  even  some 
sprightliness.  He  was  more  abroad  than  at  any  time  for 
fifteen  years  before,  and  was  usually  accompanied  by  Jarvis 
Kerruish.  His  short  laugh  answered  oftener  to  his  own  wise 
witticisms  than  at  any  time  since  the  coming  to  the  island  of 
his  brother,  the  Bishop ;  but  people  whispered  that  his  good 
spirits  did  not  keep  him  constant  company  within  the  walls 
of  his  own  house.  There  his  daughter,  Mona,  still  soft  as  the 
morning  dew  and  all  but  as  silent,  sat  much  alone.  She  had 
grown  "  wae"  as  folk  said,  rarely  being  seen  outside  the  gates 
of  Ballamona,  never  being  heard  to  laugh,  and  showing  little 
interest  in  life  beyond  the  crib  of  her  foster-child,  Ewan's 
orphaned  daughter.  And  people  remembered  her  mother, 
how  silent  she  had  been,  and  how  patient,  and  how  like  to 
what  Mona  was,  and  they  said  now,  as  they  had  said  long  ago, 
"She's  going  down  the  steep  places." 

The  Bishop  had  kept  close  to  Bishop's  Court.  Turning 
270 


THE  COURT  OF  GENERAL  GAOL  DELIVERY 

night  into  day,  and  day  into  night,  or  knowing  no  times  and 
seasons,  he  had  been  seen  to  wander  at  all  hours  up  and  down 
the  glen.  If  any  passed  him  as  he  crossed  the  road  from  the 
glen  back  to  the  house,  he  had  seemed  not  to  see.  His  grey 
hair  had  grown  snowy  white,  his  tall  figure  drooped  heavily 
from  his  shoulders,  and  his  gait  had  lost  all  its  spring. 
Stricken  suddenly  into  great  age,  he  had  wandered  about 
mumbling  to  himself,  or  else  quite  silent.  The  chapel  on  his 
episcopal  demesne  he  had  closed  from  the  time  of  the  death 
of  Ewan,  his  chaplain.  Thus  had  he  borne  himself,  shut  out 
from  the  world,  until  the  primrose  had  come  and  gone,  and 
the  cuckoo  had  begun  to  call.  Then  as  suddenly  he  under- 
went a  change.  Opening  the  chapel  at  Bishop's  Court,  he 
conducted  service  there  every  Sunday  afternoon.  The  good 
souls  of  the  parish  declared  that  never  before  had  he  preached 
with  such  strength  and  fervour,  though  the  face  over  the 
pulpit  looked  ten  long  years  older  than  on  the  Christmas 
morning  when  the  long-shore  men  brought  up  their  dread 
burden  from  the  Mooragh.  Convocation  was  kept  on  Whit 
Tuesday  as  before,  and  the  Bishop  spoke  with  calm  and  grave 
power.  His  clergy  said  he  had  gathered  strength  from  soli- 
tude and  fortitude,  from  many  days  spent  alone,  as  in  the 
wilderness,  with  his  Maker.  Here  and  there  a  wise  one  among 
his  people  said  it  might  look  better  of  him  to  take  the  beam 
out  of  his  own  eye  than  to  be  so  very  zealous  in  pointing  out 
the  motes  in  the  eyes  of  others.  The  world  did  not  stand 
still,  though  public  interest  was  in  suspense,  and  now  and 
again  some  girl  was  presented  for  incontinence  or  some  man 
for  drunkenness.  Then  it  was  noticed  that  the  censures  of 
the  Church  had  begun  to  fall  on  the  evildoer  with  a  great 
tenderness,  and  this  set  the  wise  ones  whispering  afresh  that 
some  one  was  busy  at  sweeping  the  path  to  his  own  door,  and 
also  that  the  black  ox  never  trod  on  his  own  hoof. 

The  day  of  the  trial  came  in  May.  It  was  to  be  a  day  of 
doom,  but  the  sun  shone  with  its  own  indifference  to  the  big 
little  affairs  of  men.  The  spring  had  been  a  dry  one,  and 
over  the  drought  came  heat.  From  every  comer  of  the  island 
the  people  trooped  off  under  the  broiling  sun  to  Castletown. 
The  Court  of  General  Gaol  Deliveiy  was  held  in  Castle  Rushen, 
in  the  open  square  that  formed  the  gateway  to  the  prison 
chapel,  under  the  clear  sky,  without  shelter  from  any  weather. 
There  the  narrow  space  allotted  to  spectators  was  thronged 

271 


THE  DEEMSTER 

with  hot  faces  under  beavers,  mutches,  and  sun-bonnets.  The 
passages  from  the  castle  gate  on  the  quay  were  also  thronged 
by  crowds  who  could  not  see  but  tried  to  hear.  From  the 
lancet  windows  of  the  castle  that  overlooked  the  gateway 
eager  faces  peered  out,  and  on  the  lead  flat  above  the  iron 
staircase  and  over  the  great  clock  tower  were  companies  of 
people  of  both  sexes,  who  looked  down  and  even  listened 
when  they  could.  The  windows  of  the  houses  around  the 
castle  gate  were  thrown  up  for  spectators  who  sat  on  the  sills. 
In  the  rigging  of  the  brigs  and  luggers  that  lay  in  the  harbour 
close  under  the  castle  walls  sailors  had  perched  themselves  to 
look  on,  and  crack  jokes  and  smoke.  Nearly  the  whole  floor 
of  the  market-place  was  thronged,  but  under  the  cross,  where 
none  could  see  or  hear,  an  old  woman  had  set  up  ninepins, 
tipped  with  huge  balls  of  toffee,  and  a  score  of  tipsy  fellows 
were  busy  with  them  amid  much  laughter  and  noise.  A  line 
of  older  men,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  were  propped 
against  the  castle  wall ;  and  a  young  woman  from  Ballasalla, 
reputed  to  be  a  prophetess,  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
cross,  and  calling  on  the  careless  to  take  note  that,  while  they 
cursed  and  swore  and  forgot  their  Maker,  six  men  not  twenty 
yards  away  were  on  the  brink  of  their  graves. 

The  judges  were  the  Governor  of  the  island  (who  was 
robed),  the  Clerk  of  the  Rolls,  the  two  Deemsters  (who  wore 
wigs  and  gowns),  the  Water  Bailiff,  the  Bishop,  the  Arch- 
deacon, the  Vicars-General,  and  the  twenty-four  Keys.  All 
these  sat  on  a  raised  platform  of  planks.  The  senior  and  pre- 
siding Deemster  (Thorkell  Mylrea),  who  was  the  mouthpiece 
of  the  court,  was  elevated  on  a  central  dais. 

Thorkell  was  warm,  eager,  and  even  agitated.  When  the 
Bishop  took  his  seat,  amid  a  low  murmur  of  the  spectators, 
his  manner  was  calm,  and  his  quiet  eyes  seemed  not  to  look 
into  the  faces  about  him. 

The  prisoners  were  brought  in  from  the  cell  that  opened  to 
the  left  of  the  gateway.  They  looked  haggard  and  worn,  but 
were  not  wanting  in  composure.  Dan,  towering  above  the  rest 
in  his  great  stature,  held  his  head  low  his  cheeks  were  ashy, 
but  his  lips  were  firm.  By  his  side,  half  clinging  to  his  gar- 
ments, was  the  lad  Davy,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  line 
was  old  Quilleash,  with  resolution  on  his  weather-beaten  face. 
Crennell  and  Corkell  were  less  at  ease,  but  Teare's  firm-set 
figure  and  hard-drawn  mouth  showed   the  dogged  determina- 

272 


THE  COURT  OF  GENERAL  GAOL  DELIVERY 

tion  of  a  man  who  meant  that  day  to  sell  his  life  dear.  Sixty- 
eight  men  were  present,  summoned  from  the  seventeen 
parishes  of  the  island  to  compose  a  jury  of  twelve  to  be  selec- 
ted by  the  prisoners.  Over  all  was  the  burning  sun  of  a  hot 
day  in  May. 

When  the  officer  of  the  court  had  made  the  presentment, 
and  was  going  on  to  ask  the  prisoners  to  plead,  the  proceed- 
ings were  suddenly  interrupted.  The  steward  of  the  spiritual 
barony  of  the  Bishop,  now  sole  baron  of  the  island,  rose  to  a 
point  of  law.  One  of  the  six  prisoners  who  were  indicted  for 
felony  was  a  tenant  of  the  Bishop's  barony,  and  as  such  was 
entitled  to  trial,  not  by  the  civil  powers  of  the  island,  but  by  a 
jury  of  his  barony,  presided  over  by  the  proper  president  of 
his  barony.  The  prisoner  in  question  was  Daniel  Mylrea,  and 
for  him  the  steward  claimed  the  privilege  of  a  remand  until  he 
could  be  brought  up  for  trial  before  the  court  of  the  lord  of 
the  barony  under  which  he  lived. 

This  claim  created  a  profound  sensation  in  the  court.  Dan 
himself  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  face  had  a  look  of  pain.  When 
asked  by  the  Deemster  if  the  claim  was  put  forward  by  his  wish 
or  sanction,  he  simply  shook  his  head.  The  steward  paid  no 
attention  to  this  repudiation.  "  This  court,"  he  said,  "  holds 
no  jurisdiction  over  a  tenant  of  the  Bishop's  barony ; "  and 
forthwith  he  put  in  a  document  showing  that  Daniel  Mylrea 
was  tenant  of  a  farm  on  the  episcopal  demesne,  situate  partly 
in  Kirk  Ballaugh  and  partly  in  Kirk  Michael. 

The  Deemster  knew  full  well  that  he  was  powerless.  Never- 
theless he  made  a  rigid  examination  of  the  prisoner's  lease,  and, 
finding  the  document  flawless,  he  put  the  point  of  law  to  the 
twenty-four  Keys  with  every  hampering  difficulty.  But  the 
court  was  satisfied  as  to  the  claim,  and  allowed  it.  "  The  pri- 
soner, Daniel  Mylrea,  stands  remanded  for  trial  at  the  court  of 
his  barony,"  said  the  Deemster,  in  a  tone  of  vexation;  ^'and  at 
that  trial,"  he  added,  with  evident  relish,  "  the  president  of  the 
barony  shall  be,  as  by  law  appointed,  assisted  by  a  Deemster." 

Dan  was  removed,  his  name  was  struck  out  of  the  indict- 
ment, and  the  trial  of  the  five  fishermen  was  proceeded  with. 
They  pleaded  "Not  guilty."  The  Attorney- General  prose- 
cuted, stating  the  facts  so  far  as  they  concerned  the  remaining 
prisoners,  and  reflecting  at  the  evidence  against  the  prisoner 
who  was  remanded.  He  touched  on  the  evidence  of  the  sail- 
cloth, and  then  on  the  mystery  attaching  to  a  certain  bundle 

273 


THE   DEEMSTER 

of  clothes,  belts,  and  daggers  that  had  been  found  in  the  prison 
at  Peel  Castle.  At  this  reference  the  steward  of  the  barony 
objected,  as  also  against  the  depositions  that  inculpated  Dan. 
The  witnesses  were  fewer  than  at  the  Deemster's  inquest,  and 
they  had  nothing  to  say  that  directly  criminated  the  fishermen. 
Brief  and  uninteresting  the  trial  turned  out  to  be  with  tlie 
chief  prisoner  withdrawn,  and  throughout  the  proceedings  the 
l^eemster's  vexation  was  betrayed  by  his  thin,  sharp,  testy 
voice.  Some  efforts  were  made  to  prove  that  Dan's  disap- 
pearance from  Peel  Castle  had  been  brought  about  by  the 
Bishop ;  but  the  steward  of  the  barony  guarded  so  zealously 
the  privileges  of  the  ecclesiastical  courts,  that  nothing  less  than 
an  open  and  unseemly  rupture  between  the  powers  of  Church 
and  State  seemed  imminent  when  the  Deemster,  losing  com- 
])osure,  was  for  pressing  the  irrelevant  inquiry.  Moreover,  the 
Keys,  who  sat  as  arbiters  of  points  of  law  and  to  "  pass  "  the 
verdict  of  the  jury,  were  clearly  against  the  Deemster. 

The  trial  did  not  last  an  hour.  When  the  jury  was  ready 
to  return  a  verdict,  the  Deemster  asked  in  Manx,  as  by  ancient 
usage,  "  Vod  y  fer-carree  sole  .'' "  (May  the  Man  of  the  Chancel 
[the  Bishop]  sit.'*)  And  the  foreman  answered,  "Fod"  (He 
may) ;  the  ecclesiastics  remained  in  their  seats ;  a  verdict  of 
"  Not  guilty "  was  returned,  and  straightway  the  five  fisher- 
men were  acquitted. 

Later  the  same  day  the  Deemster  vacated  his  seat  on  the 
dais,  and  then  the  Bishop  rose  and  took  it  with  great  solem- 
nity. That  the  Bishop  himself  should  sit  to  try  his  own  son, 
as  he  must  have  tried  any  other  felon  who  was  a  tenant  of  his 
barony,  made  a  profound  impression  among  the  spectators. 
The  Archdeacon,  who  had  hoped  to  preside,  looked  appalled. 
The  Deemster  sat  below,  and  on  either  side  were  the  eccle- 
siastics, who  had  claimed  their  right  to  sit  as  judges  in  the 
civil  court.  Another  jury,  a  jury  of  the  barony,  was  empan- 
nelled.  The  sergeant  of  the  barony  brought  Dan  to  the  bar. 
The  prisoner  was  still  very  calm,  and  his  lips  were  as  firm, 
though  his  face  was  as  white  and  his  head  held  as  low  as  before. 
When  a  presentment  was  read  over  to  him,  charging  him  with 
causing  the  death  of  Ewan  Mylrea,  deacon  in  lioly  orders,  and 
he  was  asked  to  plead,  he  lifted  his  eyes  slowly,  and  answered 
in  a  clear,  quiet,  sonorous  voice,  that  echoed  from  the  high 
walls  of  the  gateway,  and  was  heard  by  the  people  on  the 
clock  tower,  "  Guilty." 

274 


THE  COURT  OF  GENERAL  GAOL  DELIVERY 

As  evidence  had  been  taken  at  the  Deemster's  inquest,  no 
witnesses  were  now  heard.  The  steward  of  the  barony  pre- 
sented. He  dwelt  on  the  prisoner's  special  and  awful  crimi- 
nality, in  so  far  as  he  was  the  son  of  the  Bishop,  taught  from  his 
youth  up  to  think  of  human  life  as  a  holy  thing,  and  bound  by 
that  honoured  alliance  to  a  righteous  way  in  life.  Then  he 
touched  on  the  peculiar  duty  of  right  living  in  one  who  held 
the  office  of  captain  of  his  parish,  sworn  to  preserve  order  and 
to  protect  life. 

When  the  steward  had  appended  to  his  statement  certain 
commonplaces  of  extenuation  based  on  the  plea  of  guilty,  the 
Deemster,  amid  a  dead  hush  among  the  spectators,  put  ques- 
tions to  the  prisoner  which  were  intended  to  elicit  an  ex- 
planation of  his  motive  in  the  crime,  and  of  the  circumstances 
attending  it.     To  these  questions  Dan  made  no  answer. 

"  Answer  me,  sir,"  the  Deemster  demanded,  but  Dan  was 
still  silent.     Then  the  Deemster's  wrath  mastered  him. 

'^  It  ill  becomes  a  man  in  your  position  to  refuse  the  only 
amends  that  you  can  make  to  justice  for  the  pains  to  which 
you  have  put  this  court  and  another." 

It  was  an  idle  outburst.  Dan's  firm  lip  was  immovable. 
He  looked  steadily  into  the  Deemster's  face,  and  said  not  a 
word. 

The  steward  stepped  in.  "The  prisoner,"  he  said,  "has 
elected  to  make  the  gravest  of  all  amends  to  justice,"  and  at 
that  there  was  a  deep  murmur  among  the  people.  "  Never- 
theless, I  could  wish,"  said  the  steward,  "  that  he  would  also 
make  answer  to  the  Deemster's  question." 

But  the  prisoner  made  no  sign. 

"  There  is  some  reason  for  thinking  that,  if  all  were  known, 
where  so  much  is  now  hidden,  the  crime  to  which  the  prisoner 
pleads  guilty  would  wear  a  less  grievous  aspect." 

Still  the  prisoner  gave  no  answer. 

"  Come,  let  us  have  done,"  said  the  Deemster,  twisting  im- 
patiently in  his  seat.  "  Pronounce  the  sentence,  and  let  your 
sergeant  carry  it  into  effect." 

The  murmur  among  the  people  grew  to  a  great  commotion, 
but  in  the  midst  of  it  the  Bishop  was  seen  to  rise,  and  then  a 
deep  hush  fell  on  all. 

The  Bishop's  white  head  was  held  erect,  his  seamed  face 
was  firm  as  it  was  pale,  and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was 
clear  and  full.     "  Daniel  Mylrea,"  he  said,  "  you  have  pleaded 

275 


THE   DEEMSTER 

guilty  to  the  great  crime  of  murder.  The  sergeant  of  your 
barony  will  now  remove  you,  and  on  the  morning  of  this  day 
of  next  week  he  will  take  you  in  his  safe  custody  to  the  Tyn- 
wald  Hill,  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  there,  in  the  eye  of 
light,  and  before  the  faces  of  all  men,  to  receive  the  dreadful 
sentence  of  this  court,  and  to  endure  its  punishment." 


CHAPTER    XXXYI 

CUT   OFF    FROM    THE    PEOPLE 

During  the  week  that  followed  the  trial  of  Daniel  Mylrea  at 
the  court  of  his  barony,  the  excitement  throughout  the  island 
passed  all  experience  of  public  feeling.  What  was  to  be  the 
sentence  of  the  barony  ?  This  was  the  one  question  every- 
where— at  the  inn,  the  mill,  the  smithy,  the  market  cross,  the 
street,  in  the  court-house ;  and  if  two  shepherds  hailed  each 
other  on  the  mountains  they  asked  for  the  last  news  from  Peel. 

With  a  silent  acceptance  of  the  idea  that  death  alone  could 
be  the  penalty  of  the  crime  that  had  been  committed,  there 
passed  through  the  people  the  burden,  first  of  a  great  awe  and 
then  of  a  great  dread  that  any  Christian  man  should  die  the 
death  of  hanging.  Not  for  nearly  twoscore  years  had  the  island 
seen  that  horror,  and  old  men  shuddered  at  the  memory  of  it. 

Then  it  came  to  be  understood  in  a  vague  way  that  some- 
thing unlooked  for  was  to  occur.  Whispers  went  from  mouth 
to  mouth  that  old  Quilleash  had  sailed  down  to  the  Calf  Sound 
with  the  Ben-my-Chree  well  stored  with  provisions.  In  a  few 
days  the  old  salt  returned,  walking  overland,  preserving  an  air 
of  vast  mystery,  and  shaking  his  head  when  his  gossips  ques- 
tioned him.  Then  poor  human  nature,  that  could  not  bear  to 
see  Daniel  Mylrea  die,  could  not  bear  to  see  him  saved  either, 
and  men  who  had  sworn  in  their  impotent  white  terror  that 
never  again  should  a  gallows  be  built  in  the  island,  lusty  fellows 
who  had  shown  ruth  for  the  first  time,  began  to  show  gall  for 
the  hundredth,  to  nudge,  to  snigger,  and  to  mutter  that  blood 
was  thicker  than  water,  and  there  was  much  between  saying 
and  doing,  as  the  sayin'  was. 

The  compassion  that  had  been  growing  in  secret  began  to 
struggle  with  the  ungentle  impulses  that  came  of  superstitious 

276 


CUT   OFF   FROM  THE   PEOPLE 

fear.  It  seemed  to  be  true,  as  old  folk  were  whispering,  that 
Daniel  Mylrea  was  the  Jonah  of  the  island.  What  had  hap- 
pened in  the  first  year  of  his  life  ?  A  prolonged  drought  and 
a  terrible  famine.  What  was  happening  now.-*  Another 
drought  that  threatened  another  famine.  And  people  tried 
to  persuade  themselves  that  the  sword  of  the  Lord  was  over 
them,  and  that  it  would  only  rest  and  be  quiet  when  they  had 
executed  God's  judgment  on  the  guilty  man. 

The  day  of  Tynwald  came,  and  the  week  before  it  had 
passed  like  a  year.  There  was  no  sun,  but  the  heat  was  stifling, 
the  clouds  hung  low  and  dark  and  hot  as  the  roof  of  an  open 
oven,  the  air  was  sluggish,  and  the  earth  looked  blue.  Far 
across  the  sea  to  the  north-west  there  was  a  thin  streak  of  fiery 
cloud,  and  at  some  moments  there  was  the  smell  of  a  thunder- 
storm in  the  heavy  atmosphere.  From  north  and  south,  from 
east  and  west  the  people  trooped  to  Tynwald  Hill.  Never 
before  within  the  memory  of  living  man  had  so  vast  a  con- 
course been  witnessed  on  that  ancient  ground  of  assembly. 
Throughout  the  island  the  mill-wheel  was  stopped,  the  smithy 
fire  was  raked  over  with  ashes,  the  plough  lay  in  the  furrow, 
the  sheep  were  turned  out  on  to  the  mountains,  and  men  and 
women,  old  men,  old  women,  and  young  children,  ten  thousand 
in  all,  with  tanned  faces  and  white,  in  sun-bonnets,  mutches, 
and  capes,  and  some  with  cloaks  in  preparation  for  the  storm 
that  was  coming,  drove  in  their  little  springless  carts,  or  rode 
on  their  small  Manx  ponies,  or  trudged  on  foot  through  the 
dusty  roads,  and  over  the  bleached  hillsides  and  the  parched 
Curraghs. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  open  green  that  surrounds  the  hill  of 
Tynwald  was  densely  thronged.  Carts  were  tipped  up  in 
corners,  and  their  stores  of  food  and  drink  were  guarded  by  a 
boy  or  a  woman,  who  sat  on  the  stemboard.  Horses  were 
tethered  to  the  wheels,  or  turned  loose  to  browse  on  a  common 
near  at  hand.  Men  lounged  on  the  green  and  talked,  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  their  pipes  in  their  mouths,  or  stood 
round  the  Tynwald  Inn,  lifting  pannikins  to  their  lips,  and 
laughing — for  there  was  merriment  among  them  though  the 
work  for  which  they  had  come  together  was  not  a  merry  one. 

The  mount  itself  was  still  empty,  and  twelve  constables 
were  stationed  about  the  low  wall  that  surrounded  it,  keeping 
the  crowd  back.  And  though,  as  the  people  met  and  mingled, 
the  men  talked  of  the  crops  and  of  the  prospect  for  the  fishing, 

277 


THE   DEEMSTER 

and  women  of  the  wool  and  yarn,  and  boys  tossed  somersaults, 
and  young  girls  betook  themselves  to  girlish  games,  and  girls 
of  older  growth  in  bright  ribbons  to  ogling  and  giggling,  and 
though  there  was  some  coarse  banter  and  coarser  singing,  the 
excitement  of  the  crowd  beneath  all  was  deep  and  strong. 
At  intervals  there  was  a  movement  of  the  people  towards  a 
church,  St.  John's  Church,  that  stood  a  little  to  the  east  of 
Tynwald,  and  sometimes  a  general  rush  towards  the  gate  that 
looked  westward  towards  Peeltown  and  the  sea.  Earlier  in 
the  day  some  one  had  climbed  the  mountain  called  Greeba, 
beyond  the  chapel,  and  put  a  light  to  the  dry  gorse  at  the  top, 
and  now  the  fire  smouldered  in  the  dense  air,  and  set  up  a 
long  sinuous  trail  of  blue  smoke  to  the  empty  vault  of  the  sky. 

Towards  half-past  ten  old  Paton  Gorry,  the  sumner,  went 
down  the  narrow,  tortuous  steps  that  led  to  the  dungeon  of 
Peel  Castle.  He  carried  fetters  for  the  hands  and  legs  of 
his  prisoner,  and  fixed  them  in  their  places  with  nervous  and 
fumbling  fingers.  His  prisoner  helped  him  as  far  as  might  be, 
and  spoke  cheerily  in  answer  to  his  mumbled  adieu. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  St.  John's,  sir.  I  couldn't  give  myself 
lave  for  it,"  the  sumner  muttered  in  a  breaking  voice.  With 
a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  Daniel  Mylrea  said,  "  God 
bless  you,  Paton,"  and  laid  hold  of  the  old  man's  hand. 
Twenty  times  during  the  week  the  sumner  had  tried  in  vain 
to  prevail  on  the  prisoner  to  explain  the  circumstances  attend- 
ing liis  crime,  and  so  earn  the  mitigation  of  punishment  which 
had  been  partly  promised.  The  prisoner  had  only  shaken  his 
head  in  silence. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  Daniel  Mylrea  was  handed  over 
in  the  guard-room  to  the  sergeant  of  the  barony,  and  Paton 
Gorry's  duties — the  hardest  that  the  world  had  yet  given  him 
to  do — were  done. 

The  sergeant  and  the  prisoner  went  out  of  the  castle  and 
crossed  the  narrow  harbour  in  a  boat.  On  the  wooden  j  etty,  near 
the  steps  by  which  they  landed,  a  small  open  cart  was  drawn 
up,  and  there  was  a  crowd  of  gaping  faces  about  it.  The  two 
men  got  into  the  cart  and  were  driven  down  the  quay  towards 
the  path  by  the  river  that  led  to  Tynwald  under  the  foot  of 
Slieu  WhalHn.  As  they  passed  through  the  town  the  prisoner 
was  dimly  conscious  that  white  faces  looked  out  of  windows 
and  that  small  knots  of  people  were  gathered  at  the  corners 
of  the  alleys.     But  all  this  was  soon  blotted  out,  and  when 

278 


CUT   OFF   FROM   THE   PEOPLE 

he  came  to  himself  he  was  driving  under  the  trees  and  by 
the  side  of  the  rumbling  water. 

All  the  day  preceding  the  prisoner  had  told  himself  that 
when  his  time  came,  his  great  hour  of  suffering  and  expiation, 
he  must  bear  himself  with  fortitude,  abating  nothing  of  the 
whole  bitterness  of  the  atonement  he  was  to  make,  asking  no 
quarter,  enduring  all  contumely,  though  men  jeered  as  he 
passed  or  spat  in  his  face.  He  thought  he  had  counted  the 
cost  of  that  trial.  Seven  sleepless  nights  and  seven  days  of 
torment  had  he  given  to  try  his  spirit  for  that  furnace,  and 
he  thought  he  could  go  through  it  and  not  shrink.  In  his 
solitary  hours  he  had  arranged  his  plans.  While  he  drove 
from  Peel  to  St.  John's  he  was  to  think  of  nothing  that  would 
sap  his  resolution,  and  his  mind  was  to  be  a  blank.  Then,  as 
he  approached  the  place,  he  was  to  lift  his  eyes  without  fear, 
and  not  let  them  drop  though  their  gaze  fell  on  the  dread 
thing  that  must  have  been  built  there.  And  so,  very  calmly, 
silently,  and  fii*mly,  he  was  to  meet  the  end  of  all. 

But  now  that  he  was  no  longer  in  the  dungeon  of  the 
prison,  where  despair  might  breed  bravery  in  a  timid  soul, 
but  under  the  open  sky  where  hope  and  memory  grow  strong 
together,  he  knew,  though  he  tried  to  shut  his  heart  to  it, 
that  his  courage  was  oozing  away.  He  recognised  this  house 
and  that  gate,  he  knew  every  turn  of  the  river — where  the 
trout  lurked  and  where  the  eels  sported — and  when  he  looked 
up  at  the  dun  sky  he  knew  how  long  it  might  take  for  the 
lightning  to  break  through  the  luminous  dulness  of  the  thunder- 
cloud that  hung  over  the  head  of  Slieu  Wliallin.  Do  what 
he  would  to  keep  his  mind  a  blank,  or  to  busy  it  with  trifles 
of  the  way,  he  could  not  help  reflecting  that  he  was  seeing 
these  things  for  the  last  time. 

Then  there  came  a  long  interval,  in  which  the  cart  wherein 
he  sat  seemed  to  go  wearily  on,  on,  on,  and  nothing  awakened 
his  slumbering  senses.  When  he  recovered  consciousness  with 
a  start,  he  knew  that  his  mind  had  been  busy  with  many 
thoughts  such  as  sap  a  man's  resolution  and  bring  his  brave 
schemes  to  foolishness.  He  had  been  asking  himself  where 
his  father  was  that  day,  where  Mona  would  be  then,  and  how 
deep  their  shame  must  be  at  the  thought  of  the  death  he  w  is 
to  die.  To  him  his  death  was  his  expiation,  and  little  had  he 
thought  of  the  manner  of  it ;  but  to  them  it  was  disgrace  and 
horror.     And  so  he  shrunk  within  himself.     He  knew  now  that 

279 


THE   DEEMSTER 

h's  great  purpose  was  drifting  away  like  a  foolish  voice  that 
is  emptied  in  the  air.  Groaning  audibly,  praying  in  broken 
snatches  for  strength  of  spirit,  looking  up  and  around  with 
fearful  eyes,  he  rode  on  and  on,  until  at  length,  before  he  was 
yet  near  the  end  of  his  awful  ride,  the  deep  sound  came  float- 
ing to  him  through  the  air  of  the  voices  of  the  people  gathered 
at  the  foot  of  Tynwald.  It  was  like  the  sound  the  sea  makes 
as  its  white  breakers  fall  on  some  sharp  reef  a  mile  away : 
a  deep,  multitudinous  hum  of  many  tongues.  When  he  lifted 
his  head  and  heard  it,  his  pallid  face  became  ashy,  his  whiten- 
ing lips  trembled,  his  head  dropped  back  to  his  breast,  his 
fettered  arms  fell  between  his  fettered  legs,  river  and  sky  were 
blotted  out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  knew  that  before  the  face  of 
his  death  he  was  no  better  than  a  poor  broken  coward. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  crowd  at  Tynwald  had  grown  to  a 
vast  concourse  that  covered  every  foot  of  the  green  with  a 
dense  mass  of  moving  heads.  In  an  enclosed  pathway  that 
connected  the  chapel  with  the  mount  three  carriages  were 
drawn  up.  The  Deemster  sat  in  one  of  them,  and  his  wizened 
face  was  full  of  uncharity.  By  his  side  was  Jarvis  Kerruish. 
On  an  outskirt  of  the  crowd  two  men  stood  with  a  small  knot 
of  people  around  them  ;  they  were  Quilleash  and  Teare.  The 
Ballasalla  prophetess,  with  glittering  eyes  and  hair  in  ringlets, 
was  preaching  by  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  near  her  were 
Corkell  and  Crennell,  and  they  sang  when  she  sang,  and  while 
she  prayed  they  knelt.  Suddenly  the  great  clamorous  human 
billow  was  moved  by  a  ruffle  of  silence  that  spread  from  side 
to  side,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  deep  hush  the  door  of  the  chapel 
opened,  and  a  line  of  ecclesiastics  came  out  and  walked  to- 
wards the  mount.  At  the  end  of  the  line  was  the  Bishop, 
bareheaded,  much  bent,  his  face  white  and  seamed,  his  step 
heavy  and  uncertain,  his  whole  figure  and  carriage  telling  of 
the  sword  that  is  too  keen  for  its  scabbard.  When  the  pro- 
cession reached  the  mount  the  Bishop  ascended  to  the  topmost 
round  of  it,  and  on  the  four  green  ledges  below  him  his  clergy 
ranged  themselves.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a 
subdued  murmur  among  the  people,  and  at  one  side  of  the 
green,  the  gate  to  the  west,  the  crowd  opened  and  parted, 
and  the  space  widened  and  the  line  lengthened  until  it 
reached  the  foot  of  the  Tynwald.  Then  the  cart  that  brought 
the  sergeant  and  his  prisoner  from  the  castle  entered  it  slowly, 
and  drew  up,  and  then  with  head  and  eyes  down,  like  a  bedst 

280 


CUT   OFF   FROM  THE   PEOPLE 

that  is  struck  to  its  death,  Daniel  Mylrea  dropped  to  his  feet 
on  the  ground.  He  was  clad  in  the  blue  cloth  of  a  fisherman, 
with  a  brown  knitted  guernsey  under  his  coat,  and  sea-boots 
over  his  stockings.  He  stood  in  his  great  stature  above  the 
shoulders  of  the  tallest  of  the  men  around  him ;  and  women 
who  were  as  far  away  as  the  door  of  the  inn  could  see  the  sea- 
man's cap  he  wore.  The  sergeant  drew  him  up  to  the  foot  of 
the  mount,  but  his  bowed  head  was  never  raised  to  where  the 
Bishop  stood  above  him.  An  all-consuming  shame  sat  upon 
him,  and  around  him  was  the  deep  breathing  of  the  people. 

Presently  a  full,  clear  voice  was  heard  over  the  low  murmur 
of  the  crowd,  and  instantly  the  mass  of  moving  heads  was 
lifted  to  the  mount,  and  the  sea  of  faces  flashed  white  under 
the  heaviness  of  the  sky. 

"  Daniel  Mylrea,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  it  is  not  for  us  to  know 
if  any  hidden  circumstance  lessens  the  hideousness  of  your 
crime.  Against  all  question  concerning  your  motive  your  lips 
have  been  sealed,  and  we  who  are  your  earthly  judges  are 
compelled  to  take  you  at  the  worst.  But  if,  in  the  fulness 
of  your  remorse,  your  silence  conceals  what  would  soften  your 
great  offence,  be  sure  that  your  Heavenly  Judge,  who  reads 
your  heart,  sees  all.  You  have  taken  a  precious  life ;  you 
have  spilled  the  blood  of  one  who  bore  himself  so  meekly 
and  lovingly  and  with  such  charity  before  the  world  that  the 
hearts  of  all  men  were  drawn  to  him.  And  you,  who  slew  him 
in  heat  or  malice,  you  he  ever  loved  with  a  great  tenderness. 
Your  guilt  is  confessed,  your  crime  is  black,  and  now  your 
punishment  is  sure." 

The  crowd  held  its  breath  while  the  Bishop  spoke,  but  the 
guilty  man  moaned  feebly  and  his  bowed  head  swayed  to 
and  fro. 

'^  Daniel  Mylrea,  there  is  an  everlasting  sacredness  in  human 
life,  and  God  who  gave  it  guards  it  jealously.  When  man 
violates  it,  God  calls  for  vengeance,  and  if  we  who  are  His  law- 
givers on  earth  shut  our  ears  to  that  cry  of  the  voice  of  God, 
His  fierce  anger  goes  forth  as  a  whirlwind  and  His  word  as  a 
fire  upon  all  men.  Woe  unto  us  if  now  we  sin  against  the 
Lord  by  falling  short  of  the  punishment  that  He  has  ordered. 
Righteously  and  without  qualm  of  human  mercy,  even  as  God 
has  commanded,  we.  His  servants,  must  execute  judgment  on  the 
evil-doer,  lest  His  wrath  be  poured  out  upon  this  island  itself, 
upon  man  and  upon  beast,  and  upon  the  fruit  of  the  ground." 
19  281 


THE   DEEMSTER 

At  that  word  the  deep  murmur  broke  out  afresh  over  the 
people,  and  under  tlie  low  sky  their  upturned  faces  were  turned 
to  a  grim  paleness.  And  now  a  strange  light  came  into  the 
eyes  of  the  Bishop,  and  his  deep  voice  quavered. 

"  Daniel  Mylrea/'  he  continued,  "  it  is  not  the  way  of  God's 
worse  chastisement  to  take  an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth,  and  to  spill  blood  for  blood  that  has  been  spilled.  When 
the  sword  of  the  Lord  goes  forth  it  is  sometimes  to  destroy  the 
guilty  man,  and  sometimes  to  cut  him  off  from  the  land  of  the 
living,  to  banish  him  to  the  parched  places  of  the  wilderness, 
to  end  the  days  wherein  his  sleep  shall  be  sweet  to  him,  to 
blot  out  his  name  from  the  names  of  men,  and  to  give  him  no 
burial  at  the  last  when  the  darkness  of  death  shall  cover  him." 

The  Bishop  paused.  There  was  a  dreadful  silence,  and  the 
distant  sea  sent  up  into  the  still  air,  under  the  low  clouds  that 
reverberated  like  a  vault,  a  hoarse  threatening  murmur — 

"  Daniel  Mylrea,  you  are  not  to  die  for  your  crime." 

At  that  ill-omened  word  the  prisoner  staggered  like  a  drun- 
ken man,  and  lifted  his  right  hand  mechanically  above  his 
liead,  as  one  who  would  avert  a  blow.  And  now  it  Avas  easy 
to  see  in  the  wild  hght  in  the  eyes  of  the  Bishop,  and  to  hear 
in  his  hollow,  tense  voice,  that  the  heart  of  the  father  was 
wrestling  with  the  soul  of  the  priest,  and  that  every  word  that 
condemned  the  guilty  man  made  its  sore  wound  on  the  spirit 
of  him  that  uttered  it. 

"  You  have  chosen  death  rather  than  life,  but  on  this  side 
of  death's  darkness  you  have  yet,  by  God's  awful  will,  to  be- 
come a  terror  to  yourself;  you  have  water  of  gall  to  drink; 
toilfully  you  have  to  live  in  a  waste  land  alone,  where  the  sweet 
light  of  morning  shall  bring  you  pain,  and  the  darkness  of  night 
have  eyes  to  peer  into  your  soul ;  and  so  on  and  on  from  year 
to  weary  year  until  your  step  shall  fail  and  there  shall  be  never 
another  to  help  you  up ;  hopeless,  accursed,  finding  death  in 
life,  looking  only  for  life  in  death,  and  crying  in  the  bitterness 
of  your  desolation,  '  Cursed  be  the  day  wherein  I  was  born ; 
let  not  the  day  wherein  my  mother  bare  me  be  blessed  ! 
Cursed  be  the  man  that  brought  tidings  to  my  father,  saying, 
"  A  man  child  is  born  unto  thee,"  making  his  heart  glad.'  " 

One  hoarse  cry  as  of  physical  pain  burst  from  the  prisoner 
before  these  awful  words  were  yet  fully  uttered.  The  guilty 
man  giipped  his  head  between  his  hands,  and  like  a  beast  that 
is  smitten  in  the  shambles  he  stood  in  a  stupor,  his  body  sway- 

282 


CUT   OFF   FROM   THE   PEOPLE 

ing  slightly,  a  film  upon  his  eyes,  and  his  mind  sullen  and 
stunned.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  when  the 
Bishop  spoke  again,  his  tempest-beaten  head,  white  with  the 
flowers  of  the  grave,  trembled  visibly.  The  terrified  people 
were  grasping  each  other's  hands,  and  their  hard-drawn  breath 
went  through  the  air  like  the  hiss  of  the  sea  at  its  ebb.  As  they 
looked  up  at  the  Bishop  they  understood  that  an  awful  struggle 
of  human  love  and  spiritual  duty  was  going  on  before  them,  and 
over  all  their  terror  they  were  moved  to  a  deep  compassion. 

"  Daniel  Mylrea,"  said  the  Bishop  again,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing his  efforts  to  uphold  it,  his  voice  softened  and  all  but  broke, 
"  vengeance  belongs  to  God,  but  we  who  are  men  and  prone 
to  fall  are  not  to  deny  mercy.  When  your  fetters  are  re- 
moved, and  you  leave  this  place,  you  will  go  to  the  Calf  Sound 
that  flows  at  the  extreme  south  of  the  island.  There  you  will 
find  your  fishing-boat,  stored  with  such  as  may  meet  your 
immediate  wants.  With  that  offering  we  part  from  you  while 
life  shall  last.  Use  it  well,  but  henceforward  look  for  no  suc- 
cour whence  it  has  come.  Though  you  loathe  your  life,  be 
zealous  to  preserve  it,  and  hasten  not,  I  warn  you,  by  one  hour 
the  great  day  of  God's  final  reckoning.  Most  of  all  be  mind- 
ful of  the  things  of  an  eternal  concernment,  that  we  who  part 
from  you  now  may  not  part  for  ever  as  from  a  soul  given  over 
to  everlasting  darkness." 

The  prisoner  gave  no  further  sign.  Then  the  Bishop  turned 
with  a  wild  gesture  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  and  lifted  both 
his  hands.  "  Men  and  women  of  Man,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
rose  to  the  shrillness  of  a  cry,  ''the  sentence  of  the  court  of  the 
barony  of  the  island  is,  that  this  man  shall  be  cut  off  from  his 
people.  Henceforth  let  him  have  no  name  among  us,  nor  family, 
nor  kin.  From  now  for  ever  let  no  flesh  touch  his  flesh.  Let  no 
tongue  speak  to  him.  Let  no  eye  look  on  him.  If  he  should  be 
an-hungered,  let  none  give  him  meat.  When  he  shall  be  sick, 
let  none  minister  to  him.  When  his  death  shall  come,  let  no 
man  buvy  him.  Alone  let  him  live,  alone  let  him  die,  and  among 
the  beasts  of  the  field  let  him  hide  his  unburied  bones." 

A  great  hoarse  groan  arose  from  the  people,  such  as  comes 
from  the  bosom  of  a  sullen  sea.  The  pathos  of  the  awful 
struggle  which  they  had  looked  upon  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
horror  of  its  tragedy.  What  they  had  come  to  see  was  as 
nothing  to  the  awfulness  of  the  thing  they  had  witnessed. 
Death  was  terrible,  but  this  was  beyond  death's  terror.    Some- 

283 


THE   DEEMSTER 

where  in  the  dark  chambers  of  the  memory  of  their  old  men 
the  like  of  it  lived  as  a  grim  gorgon  from  old  time.  They 
looked  up  at  the  mount,  and  the  gaunt  figure  standing  there 
above  the  vast  multitude  of  moving  heads  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing beyond  nature.  The  trembling  upraised  hands,  the  eyes 
of  fire,  the  Avhite  quivering  lips,  the  fever  in  the  face  which 
consumed  the  grosser  senses,  appeared  to  transcend  the  natural 
man.  And  below  was  the  prisoner,  dazed,  stunned,  a  beast 
smitten  mortally  and  staggering  to  its  fall. 

The  sergeant  removed  the  fetters  from  the  prisoner's  hands 
and  feet,  and  turned  him  about  with  his  face  towards  the  south. 
Not  at  first  did  the  man  seem  to  realise  that  he  was  no  longer 
a  prisoner  but  an  outcast,  and  free  to  go  whither  he  would  save 
where  other  men  might  be.  Then,  recovering  some  partial 
consciousness,  he  moved  a  pace  or  two  forward,  and  instantly 
the  crowd  opened  for  him  and  a  long  wide  way  was  made 
through  the  dense  mass,  and  he  walked  througli  it,  slow  yet 
strong  of  step,  with  head  bent  and  eyes  that  looked  into  theeyes 
of  no  man.  Thus  he  passed  away  from  the  Tynwald  towards 
the  foot  of  Slieu  Whallin  and  tlie  valley  of  Foxdale  that  runs 
southward.  And  the  people  looked  after  him,  and  the  Bishop 
on  the  mount  and  the  clergy  below  followed  him  with  their  eyes. 
A  great  wave  of  compassion  swept  over  the  crowd  as  the  solitary 
figure  crossed  the  river  and  began  to  ascend  the  mountain  path. 
Tlie  man  was  accursed,  and  none  might  look  upon  him  with 
pity ;  but  there  were  eyes  that  grew  dim  at  that  sight. 

The  smoke  still  rose  in  a  long  blue  column  from  the  side  of 
Greeba,  and  the  heavy  cloud  that  had  hung  at  poise  over  the 
head  of  Slieu  Whallin  had  changed  its  shape  to  the  outlines 
of  a  mighty  bird,  luminous  as  a  seagull,  but  of  a  sickly  saffron. 
Over  the  long  line  of  sea  and  sky  to  the  west  the  streak  of  red 
that  had  burned  duskily  had  also  changed  to  a  dull  phosphoric 
light,  that  sent  eastward  over  the  sky's  low  roof  a  misty  glow. 
And  while  the  people  watched  the  lonely  man  who  moved 
away  from  them  across  the  breast  of  the  hill,  a  pale  sheet  of 
lightning,  without  noise  of  thunder,  flashed  twice  or  thrice 
before  their  faces.  So  still  was  the  crowd,  and  so  reverberant 
the  air,  that  they  could  hear  the  man's  footsteps  on  the  stony 
hillside.  When  he  reached  the  topinost  point  of  the  path,  and 
was  about  to  descend  to  the  valley,  he  was  seen  to  stop,  and 
presently  to  turn  his  face,  gazing  backwards  for  a  moment. 
Against  the  dun  sky  his  figure  could  be  seen  from  head  to 

284 


CUT   OFF   FROM   THE   PEOPLE 

foot.  While  he  stood  the  people  held  their  breath.  When 
he  was  gone  and  the  mountain  had  hidden  him  the  crowd 
breathed  audibly. 

At  the  next  moment  all  eyes  were  turned  back  to  the 
mount.  There  the  Bishop,  a  priest  of  God  no  longer,  but  only 
a  poor  human  father  now,  had  fallen  to  his  knees  and  lifted 
his  two  trembling  arms.  Then  the  pent-up  anguish  of  the 
wretched  heart  that  had  steeled  itself  to  a  mighty  sacrifice  of 
duty  ])urst  forth  in  a  prayer  of  great  agony. 

"  O  Father  in  heaven,  it  is  not  for  him  who  draws  the  sword 
of  the  Lord's  vengeance  among  men  to  cry  for  mercy,  but 
rather  to  smite  and  spare  not,  yea,  though  his  own  flesh  be 
smitten ;  but,  O  Thou  that  fillest  heaven  and  earth,  from  whom 
none  can  hide  himself  in  any  secret  place  that  Thou  shalt  not 
see  him,  look  witli  pity  on  the  secret  place  of  the  heart  of  Thy 
servant  and  hear  his  cry.  O  Lord  on  high,  Avhose  anger  goes 
forth  as  a  whirlwind,  and  whose  word  is  like  as  a  fire,  what  am 
I  but  a  feeble,  broken,  desolate  old  man  }  Thou  knowest  my 
weakness,  and  how  my  familiars  watched  for  my  halting,  and 
how  for  a  period  my  soul  failed  me,  and  how  my  earthly  affec- 
tions conquered  my  heavenly  office,  and  how  God's  rule  among 
this  people  was  most  in  danger  from  the  servant  of  God,  who 
should  be  valiant  for  the  Lord  on  the  earth.  And  if  through 
the  trial  of  this  day  Thou  hast  been  strength  of  my  strength, 
woe  is  me  now,  aged  and  full  of  days,  feeble  of  body  and  weak 
of  faith,  that  Thou  hast  brought  this  heavy  judgment  upon 
me.  God  of  goodness  and  righteous  Judge  of  all  the  earth, 
have  mercy  and  forgive  if  we  weep  for  him  who  goeth  away 
and  shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  his  home  and  kindred. 
Follow  him  with  Thy  Spirit,  touch  him  with  Thy  finger  of  fire, 
pour  upon  him  the  healing  of  Thy  grace,  so  that  after  death's 
great  asundering,  when  all  shall  stand  for  one  judgment,  it  may 
not  be  said  of  Thy  servant, '  Write  ye  this  old  man  childless.'  " 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  great  shattered  soul,  and  the  terrified 
people  dropped  to  their  knees  while  the  voice  pealed  over  their 
heads.  Wlien  the  Bishop  was  silent  the  clergy  lifted  him  to 
his  feet,  and  helped  him  down  the  pathway  to  the  chapel. 
There  M^as  then  a  dull  murmur  of  distant  thunder  from  across 
the  sea.  The  people  fell  apart  in  confusion.  Before  the  last 
of  thein  had  left  the  green  the  cloud  of  pale  saffron  over  the 
head  of  Slieu  Whallin  had  broken  into  lightning,  and  the 
rain  was  falling  heavily. 

285 


THE   DEEMSTER 
THE  BRIEF  RELATION  OF  DANIEL  MYLREA 

WRITTEM    BY    HIMSELF 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

OF    HIS    OUTCAST    STATE 

1,  Daniel  Mylrea,  the  son  (God  forgive  me ! )  of  Gilchrist 
Mylrea,  Bishop  of  Man — grace  and  peace  be  witli  that  saintly 
soul ! — do  set  me  down  in  the  year  (as  well  as  my  reckoning 
serves  me)  17 — ,  the  month  September^  the  day  somewhere 
between  the  twentieth  and  the  thirtieth,  to  begin  a  brief 
relation  of  certain  exceeding  strange  accidents  of  this  life  that 
have  befallen  me  since,  at  the  heavy  judgment  of  God,  I  first 
turned  my  face  from  the  company  of  men.  Not,  as  the  good 
Bunyan  was,  am  I  now  compelled  to  such  a  narration — bear 
with  me  though  I  name  myself  with  that  holy  man — by  hope 
or  thought  that  the  goodness  and  bounty  of  God  may  thereby 
be  the  more  advanced  before  the  sons  of  men,  though  it  is  for 
me  also  to  magnify  the  Heavenly  Majesty,  insomuch  as  that 
by  this  door  of  my  outcast  state  He  has  brought  me  to  partake 
of  grace  and  life.  Alone  I  sit  to  write  what  perchance  no  eye 
mc.y  read,  but  it  is  with  hope,  perhaps  only  vain,  that  she  who 
is  dear  to  me  beyond  words  of  appraisement  may  yet  learn  of 
the  marvels  which  did  oft  occur,  that  I  try  in  these  my  last 
days  to  put  my  memoiy  under  wardship.  For  it  has  fastened 
on  me  with  conviction  that  God  has  chosen  me  for  a  vessel  of 
mercy,  and  that  very  soon  He  will  relieve  me  from  the  body 
of  the  death  I  live  in.  If  I  finish  this  writing  before  I  go 
hence,  and  if  when  I  am  gone  she  reads  it,  methinks  it  will 
come  to  her  as  a  deep  solace  that  her  prayer  of  long  since  was 
answered,  and  that,  though  so  sorely  separated,  we  twain 
have  yet  been  one  even  in  this  world,  and  lived  together  by 
day  and  hour  in  the  cheer  of  the  spirit.  But  if  the  gracious 
end  should  come  before  I  bring  my  task  to  a  period,  and  she 
should  know  only  of  my  forlorn  condition  and  learn  nothing 
of  the  grace  wherein  much  of  its  desolation  was  lost,  and  never 
come  to  an  understanding  of  such  of  those  strange  accidents 

2^Q 


OF   HIS   OUTCAST  STATE 

as  to  her  knowledge  have  befallen,  then  that  were  also  well, 
for  she  must  therein  be  spared  many  tears. 

It  was  on  May  29, ,  seven  years  and  four  months,  as  I 

reckon  it,  back  from  this  present  time,  that  in  punishment  of 
my  great  crime  the  heavy  sentence  fell  on  me  that  cut  me  off 
for  ever  from  the  number  of  the  people.  What  happened  on 
that  day  and  on  the  days  soon  following  it  I  do  partly  remember 
with  the  vividness  of  horror,  and  partly  recall  with  difficulty 
and  mistrust  from  certain  dark  places  of  memory  that  seem  tt> 
be  clouded  over  and  numb.  When  I  came  to  myself  as  I  was 
plodding  over  the  side  of  Slieu  Whallin,  the  thunder  was  loud 
in  my  ears,  the  lightning  was  flashing  before  my  eyes,  and  the 
rain  was  swirling  around  me.  I  minded  them  not,  but  went 
on,  hardly  seeing  what  was  about  or  above  me,  on  and  on, 
over  mountain  road  and  path,  until  the  long  day  was  almost 
done  and  the  dusk  began  to  deepen.  Then  the  strength  of 
the  tempest  was  spent,  and  only  the  hinder  part  of  it  beat  out 
from  the  west  a  thin,  misty  rain,  and  I  found  myself  in  Rushen, 
on  the  south  brow  of  the  glen  below  Car-ny-Gree.  There  I 
threw  myself  down  on  the  turf  with  a  great  numbness  and  a 
great  stupor  upon  me,  both  in  body  and  in  mind.  How  long 
1  lay  there  I  know  not,  whether  a  few  minutes  only,  or,  as  I 
then  surmised,  near  four-and-twenty  hours ;  but  the  light  of 
day  was  not  wholly  gone  from  the  sky  when  I  lifted  my  head 
from  where  it  had  rested  on  my  hands,  and  saw  that  about 
me  in  a  deep  half-circle  stood  a  drift  of  sheep,  all  still,  save 
for  their  heavy  breathing,  and  all  gazing  in  their  questioning 
silence  down  on  me.  1  think  in  my  heart,  remembering  my 
desolation,  I  drew  solace  from  this  strange  fellowship  on  the 
lone  mountain-side,  but  I  lifted  my  hand  and  drove  the  sheep 
away,  and  I  thought  as  they  went  they  bleated,  but  I  could 
hear  nothing  of  their  cry,  and  so  surmised  that  under  the 
sufferings  of  that  day  I  had  become  deaf 

I  fell  back  to  the  same  stupor  as  before,  and  when  I  came 
to  myself  again  the  moon  was  up,  and  a  white  light  was  around 
the  place  where  I  sat.  With  the  smell  of  the  sheep  in  my 
nostrils  I  thought  they  might  be  standing  about  me  again,  but 
I  could  see  nothing  clearly,  and  so  stretched  out  my  hands 
either  way.  Then,  from  their  confusion  in  scurring  away,  I 
knew  that  the  sheep  had  indeed  been  there,  and  that  under 
the  sufferings  of  that  day  I  had  also  failed  in  my  sight. 

The  tempest  was  over  by  this  time,  the  mountain  turf  had  run 
287 


THE   DEEMSTER 

dry,  and  I  lay  me  down  at  length  and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  with- 
out dreams;  and  so  ended  the  first  day  of  my  solitary  state. 

When  I  awoke  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  wheatear  was 
singing  on  a  stone  very  close  above  me,  whereunder  her  pale 
blue  egg  she  had  newly  laid.  I  know  not  what  wayward 
humour  then  possessed  me,  but  it  is  true  that  I  reached  my 
hand  to  the  little  egg  and  looked  at  it,  and  crushed  it  between 
my  finger  and  thumb,  and  cast  its  refuse  away.  My  surmise  of 
the  night  before  I  now  found  to  be  verified,  that  hearing  and 
sight  were  both  partly  gone  from  me.  No  man  ever  mourned 
less  at  first  knowledge  of  such  infirmities,  but  in  truth  I  was 
almost  beyond  the  touch  of  pain,  and  a  sorer  calamity  would 
have  wanted  strength  to  torture  me.  I  rose  and  set  my  face 
southwards,  for  it  was  in  the  Calf  Sound,  as  I  remembered, 
that  I  was  to  find  my  boat,  and  if  any  hope  lived  in  my  heart, 
so  numb  of  torpor,  it  was  that  perchance  I  might  set  sail  and 
get  myself  away. 

I  walked  between  Barrule  and  Dalby,  and  came  down  on 
the  eastward  of  Cronk-na-Irey-Lhaa.  Then  I,  who  had  never 
before  known  my  strength  to  fail,  grew,  suddenly  weary,  and 
would  fain  have  cast  me  down  to  rest.  So  to  succumb  I  could 
not  brook,  but  I  halted  in  my  walking  and  looked  back,  and 
across  the  plain  to  the  east,  and  down  to  the  Bay  of  Fleswick 
to  the  west.  Many  times  since  have  1  stood  there  and  looked 
on  sea  and  sky,  and  mountain  and  dale,  and  asked  myself  was 
ever  so  fair  a  spot,  and  if  the  plains  of  heaven  were  fairer  .^ 
But  that  day  my  dim  eyes  scoured  the  sea  for  a  sail  and  the 
mountains  for  a  man,  and  nothing  did  they  see  of  either,  and 
all  else  was  then  as  nothing. 

Yet,  though  I  was  so  eager  to  keep  within  sight  of  my 
fellow-man,  I  was  anxious  not  to  come  his  way,  and  in  choosing 
my  path  I  walked  where  he  was  least  likely  to  be.  Thus, 
holding  well  to  the  west  of  Fleswick,  I  took  the  cliff  head 
towards  Brada,  and  then  came  down  between  Port  Erin  and 
Port-le-Mary  to  the  moors  that  stretch  to  the  margin  of  the 
sound.  Some  few  I  met,  chiefly  shepherds  and  fishermen,  but 
1  lifted  my  eyes  to  none,  and  none  gave  me  salutation.  This 
was  well,  for  my  heart  was  bitter,  and  if  any  had  spoken,  not 
knowing  me,  I  doubt  not  I  should  have  answered  ill.  In  my 
great  heart- torpor,  half-blind,  half- deaf,  I  was  that  day  like  a 
wounded  beast  of  the  field,  ranging  the  moorland  with  a  wild 
abandonment  and  dangerous  to  its  kind. 

288 


OF  HIS   OUTCAST   STATE 

When  I  came  to  Cregneesh  and  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  a 
little  disjointed  gipsy  encampment  of  mud-built  tents  pitched 
on  the  bare  moor,  the  sky  was  reddening  across  the  sea,  and 
from  that  I  knew  how  far  advanced  the  day  must  be,  how  slow 
my  course  had  been,  and  how  low  my  strength.  In  half-an- 
hour  more  I  had  sighted  my  boat,  the  Beii-my-Chree,  where 
she  lay  in  the  Doon  Creek  of  the  sound,  at  the  length  of  some 
fifty  fathoms  inside  the  rocks  of  Kitterland.  When  I  came  up 
to  her,  I  found  her  anchored  in  some  five  fathoms  of  water, 
with  the  small  boat  lying  dry  on  the  shingly  beach.  Her  cabin 
contained  provisions  enough  for  present  needs,  and  more  than 
that  I  was  in  no  mood  to  think  about.  Since  the  morning  of 
the  day  before  I  had  not  broken  fast,  but  now  I  ate  hungrily 
of  oaten  and  barley  cake.  Later  in  the  evening,  when  the 
stars  were  out  and  the  moon,  which  was  in  its  last  quarter,  was 
hanging  over  the  Calf,  I  mixed  myself  some  porridge  of  rye- 
meal  and  cold  water,  and  ate  it  on  the  deck,  and  then  went 
below  to  my  bunk  and  lay  me  down  alone.  Between  sleep 
and  waking  I  tried  to  think  of  my  position  and  to  realise  it, 
but  an  owl  was  hooting  somewhere  on  the  land,  and  some- 
where over  the  waters  of  the  sound  a  diver  was  making  his 
unearthly  laugh.  I  could  not  think  save  of  the  hooting  owl 
and  the  screaming  diver,  and  when  I  thought  of  them,  though 
their  note  was  doleful  and  seemed  to  tell  of  suffering  or  per- 
haps of  demoniac  delight,  I  could  not  thank  God  that  I  had 
been  made  a  man.  Thus,  feeling  how  sore  a  thing  it  is  to  be 
a  creature  living  under  the  wrath  of  God,  I  tossed  on  my  bunk 
until  I  fell  to  sleep ;  and  so  ended  the  second  day  of  my  un- 
blessed condition. 

To  follow  closely  all  that  befell  on  the  next  day,  or  the 
many  days  thereafter,  whereof  I  kept  no  reckoning,  were  to 
weary  my  spirit.  One  thing  I  know,  that  a  sudden  numbness 
of  the  spiritual  life  within  me  left  me  a  worse  man  than  I  had 
been  before  the  day  of  my  cutting  off,  and  that  I  did  soon  lose 
the  little  I  had  of  human  love  and  tenderness.  My  gun  had 
been  put  in  the  boat,  and  with  that  I  ranged  the  cliffs  and  the 
moor  from  the  Mull  Hills  that  lie  to  the  west  of  Cregneesh  to 
the  Chasms  that  are  to  the  east  of  it.  Many  puffins  I  shot, 
that  much  frequent  these  shores,  but  their  flesh  was  rank  and 
salt,  and  they  were  scarcely  worth  the  powder  I  spent  on  them. 
Thus  it  sometimes  happened  that,  being  in  no  straits  for  food, 
I  cast  the  birds  away,  or  did  not  put  myself  to  the  pains  of 

289 


THE  DEEMSTER 

lifting  them  up  after  they  fell  to  my  gun,  but  went  on,  never- 
theless, to  destroy  them  in  my  wanton  humour.  Rabbits  I 
snared  by  a  trick  I  learned  when  a  boy,  and  sometimes  cooked 
them  in  the  stove  and  ate  them  like  a  Christian  man,  and  at 
other  times  I  sat  me  down  on  the  hillside  and  rived  them 
asunder  as  a  wild  creature  of  the  hills  might  do.  But  whether 
I  ate  in  my  boat  or  on  the  cliff",  I  took  no  religion  to  my  table, 
and  thought  only  that  I  liked  my  food  or  misliked  it. 

Many  times  in  these  first  days  I  had  to  tear  myself  away 
from  thinking  of  my  condition,  for  to  do  so  was  like  the  stab  of 
a  knife  to  my  brain,  and  I  plainly  saw  that  in  that  way  madness 
itself  would  lie.  If  I  told  myself  that  other  men  had  been  cast 
alone  ere  now  in  desolate  places  where  no  foot  of  man  was  and 
no  sound  of  a  human  voice,  a  great  stroke  would  come  upon  my 
spirit  with  the  thought  that  only  their  bodies  had  been  cast 
away,  but  that  my  soul  was  too.  The  marooned  seaman  on  an 
uninhabited  island,  when  at  length  he  set  eyes  on  his  fellow- 
man,  might  lift  up  his  heart  to  God,  but  to  me  the  company  of 
men  was  not  blessed.  Free  I  was  to  go  where  men  were,  even 
to  the  towns  wherein  they  herded  together,  but  go  where  I 
would  I  must  yet  be  alone. 

With  this  thought,  and  doubting  not  that  for  me  the  day  of 
grace  was  past  and  gone,  since  God  had  turned  His  face  from 
the  atonement  I  had  erewhile  been  minded  to  make,  I  grew 
day  by  day  more  bitter  in  my  heart,  and  found  it  easiest  to 
shut  my  mind  by  living  actively  from  hour  to  hour.  Then,  like 
a  half-starved  hound,  I  went  abroad  at  daybreak  and  scoured 
the  hills  the  day  long,  and  returned  to  my  bed  at  night.  I 
knew  I  was  a  baser  thing  than  I  had  been,  and  it  brought  some 
comfort  then  to  know  that  I  was  alone,  and  no  eye  saw  me  as 
I  now  was.  Mine  was  a  rank  hold  of  life,  and  it  gave  me  a 
savage  delight  unknown  before  to  live  by  preying  on  other 
creatures.  I  shot  and  slew  daily  and  hourly,  and  if  for  a 
moment  I  told  myself  that  what  1  had  killed  held  its  life  on 
the  same  tenure  that  I  did,  my  humanity  was  not  touched 
except  to  feel  a  strange  wild  thrill  that  it  was  not  I  that  lay 
dead.  Looking  back  over  these  seven  years,  it  comes  to  me 
as  an  unnatural  thing  that  this  mood  can  ever  have  been 
mine ;  but  mine  it  was,  and  from  the  like  of  it  may  God  in 
His  mercy  keep  all  Christian  men. 

One  day — I  think  it  must  have  been  somewhere  towards 
the  end  of  the  first  month  of  my  outcast  state — I  was  ranging 

290 


OF   HIS   WAY   OF   LIFE 

the  cliff  side  above  the  grey  rocks  of  the  Black  Head  when  I 
chanced  on  a  hare  and  shot  it.  On  coming  up  with  it,  I  found 
it  was  lean  and  bony,  and  so  turned  aside  and  left  it  as  it 
squeaked  and  bounced  from  my  feet.  This  was  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  towards  nightfall  I  returned  by  the  same  way,  and  saw 
the  hare  lying  by  a  brookside,  ragged  and  bleeding,  but  still 
alive.  At  sight  of  me  the  wee  thing  tried  to  move  away,  but 
its  weakness  and  a  clot  of  its  blood  kept  it  down,  and  feeling 
its  extremity,  it  lifted  its  two  slender  paws  in  the  air,  while 
its  glistening  eyes  streamed  visibly,  and  set  up  a  piteous  cry 
like  the  cry  of  a  little  child,  I  cannot  write  what  then  I  did, 
for  it  wounds  me  sore  to  think  of  it,  but  when  it  was  done, 
and  that  piteous  cry  was  no  more  in  mine  ears,  suddenly  I  said 
with  myself  this  awful  word,  "  I  am  no  longer  a  man,  but  a 
beast  of  the  field ;  and  the  God  of  mercy  and  of  tenderness 
has  cast  me  for  ever  out  of  the  hollow  of  His  hand." 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII 

OF    HIS    WAY    OF    LIFE 

This  meeting  with  the  poor  hare,  though  now  it  looks  so 
trivial  a  thing,  did  then  make  a  great  seizure  upon  my  mind, 
so  that  it  changed  my  course  and  habit  of  life.  For  ceasing 
not  to  believe  that  I  was  wholly  given  over  to  a  reprobate  soul, 
I  yet  laid  my  gun  aside,  and  locked  my  shot  and  powder  in  a 
drawer  beneath  my  bunk,  and  set  my  face  towards  new  ways 
of  living.  First  I  put  myself  to  counting  all  that  I  possessed. 
Thus  I  found  that  of  rye  and  Indian  meal  I  had  a  peck  each, 
of  barley  a  peck,  with  two  quarters  of  fine  barley  flour,  of  oats 
a  peck,  with  two  quarters  of  oaten  meal,  of  potatoes  two 
kischen,  beside  onions  and  a  little  common  salt.  In  the  hold 
under  the  hatches  there  were  stored  sundry  useful  implements 
— a  spade,  a  fork,  a  hedge-knife,  some  hempen  rope  and 
twine,  and  with  the  rest  were  the  four  herring  nets  which 
belonged  to  the  boat,  a  mackerel-net,  and  some  deep-sea  lines. 
Other  things  there  were  that  I  do  not  name — wanting  memory 
of  them  at  this  time  of  writing — but  enough  in  all  for  most 
uses  that  a  lone  man  might  have. 

And  this  had  ofttimes  set  me  wondering  why,  if  it  had  been 
291 


THE   DEEMSTER 

meant  that  I  should  be  cast  utterly  away,  I  had  been  provided 
with  means  of  life,  who  could  well  have  found  them  for  myself. 
But  after  that  meeting  with  the  hare  I  perceived  the  end  of 
God  in  this,  namely,  that  I  should  not,  without  guilt,  descend 
from  the  state  of  a  Christian  man  when  hunger  had  to  be 
satisfied. 

And  herein  also  I  found  the  way  of  the  stern  Judge  with 
guilty  man,  that,  having  enough  for  present  necessities,  I  had 
little  for  the  future,  beyond  the  year  that  then  was,  and  that 
if  I  must  eat,  so  I  must  work.  Tlius  upon  a  day  somewhere, 
as  1  reckon,  about  a  month  after  my  cutting  off,  I  rose  early, 
and  set  myself  to  delve  a  piece  of  fallow  ground — where  all 
was  fallow — two  roods  or  more  in  extent,  lying  a  little  to  the 
north  of  the  Black  Head,  and  to  the  south  of  the  circle  of 
stones  that  stand  near  by.  All  day  I  wrought  fasting,  and 
when  darkness  fell  in  the  fallows  were  turned.  Next  morning 
I  put  down  my  seed,  of  potatoes  a  half  kischen,  cut  in  quarters 
where  the  eyes  were  many,  and  also  of  barley  and  oats  half  a 
peck  each,  keeping  back  my  other  half-peck  lest  the  ground 
were  barren,  or  the  weather  against  it,  or  the  year  too  far 
worn  for  such-like  crops. 

And  that  day  of  the  delving,  the  first  on  which  I  wrought 
as  a  man,  was  also  the  first  on  which  I  felt  a  man's  craving  for 
the  company  of  other  men.  The  sun  was  strong  all  the  fore 
part  of  the  day,  and  its  hot  rays  scorched  the  skin  of  my  back 
— for  I  had  stripped  to  my  waist  for  my  labour — and  that  set 
me  thinking  what  month  it  was,  and  wondering  what  was  doing 
in  the  world,  and  how  long  I  had  been  where  I  then  was. 
When  I  returned  to  my  boat  at  nightfall,  the  air,  as  I  re- 
member it,  was  quiet  over  the  sound  as  it  might  be  in  a  cloister, 
and  only  the  gulls  were  jabbering  on  Kitterland  and  the  cor- 
morants at  the  water's  edge.  And  I  sat  on  the  deck  while 
the  sun  went  down  in  the  sea,  and  the  red  sky  darkened  and 
the  stars  began  to  show  and  the  moon  to  look  out.  Then  I 
went  below  and  ate  my  barley-bread  and  thought  of  what  it 
was  to  be  alone. 

It  was  that  night  that  I  bethought  me  of  my  watch,  which 
I  had  not  once  looked  for  since  the  day  of  my  immersion  in 
the  Cross  Vein  on  Orrisdale,  when  I  found  it  stopped  from 
being  full  of  water.  In  my  fob  it  had  lain  with  its  seals  and 
chain  since  then,  but  now  I  took  it  out  and  cleaned  it  with  oil 
from  the  fat  of  the  hare  and  wound  it  up.     For  months  there- 


OF   HIS   WAY   OF   LIFE 

after  I  set  a  great  store  by  it,  always  carrying  it  in  my  fob 
when  I  went  abroad,  and  wiien  I  came  home  to  tlie  boat  always 
hanging  it  on  a  nail  to  the  larboard  of  the  stove-pipe  in  the 
cabin.  And  in  the  long  silence  of  the  night,  when  I  heard  it, 
sure,  I  thought,  it  is  the  same  to  me  as  good  company.  Very 
careful  I  was  to  wind  it  when  the  sun  set,  but  if  perchance  it 
ran  down,  and  I  awoke  in  my  bunk,  and,  listening,  heard  it 
not,  then  it  was  as  if  the  pulse  had  stopped  of  the  little  world 
I  lived  in,  and  there  was  nothing  but  a  great  emptiness. 

But  withal  my  loneliness  increased  rather  than  diminished, 
and  though  I  had  no  longer  any  hankering  after  my  old  way  of 
life  in  ranging  the  moorlands  with  my  gun,  yet  I  felt  that  the 
activity  of  that  existence  had  led  me  off  from  thinking  too  much 
of  my  forlorn  condition.  Wherefore,  Avhen  my  potatoes  had 
begun  to  show  above  the  ground,  and  I  had  earthed  them  up, 
I  began  to  bethink  me  touching  my  boat,  that  it  must  be  now 
the  time  of  the  herring-fishing  come  again,  and  that  I  would 
go  out  of  nights  and  see  what  I  could  take.  So  never  doubt- 
ing that  single-handed  I  could  navigate  the  lugger,  I  hoisted 
the  nets  out  of  the  hold  athwart  the  bunk-board,  and  took 
them  asliore  to  mend  and  to  bark  them  on  the  beach.  I  had 
spread  them  out  on  the  shingle,  and  was  using  my  knife  and 
twine  on  the  holes  of  the  dog-fish,  when  suddenly  from  behind 
me  there  came  the  loud  bark  of  a  dog.  Well  I  remember  how 
I  trembled  at  the  sound  of  it,  for  it  was  the  nearest  to  a  man's 
voice  that  I  had  heard  these  many  lonesome  days,  and  how 
fearfully  I  turned  my  head  over  my  shoulder  as  if  some  man 
had  touched  me  and  spoken.  But  what  I  saw  was  a  poor 
mongrel  dog,  small  as  a  cur,  and  with  ragged  ears,  a  peaky 
nose,  and  a  scant  tail,  which  for  all  its  loud  challenge  it 
dangled  woefully  between  its  legs.  Until  then  I  had  never 
smiled  or  wept  since  my  cutting  off,  and  I  believed  myself  to 
have  lost  the  sense  of  laughter  and  of  tears,  but  I  must  have 
laughed  at  the  sight  of  the  dog,  so  much  did  it  call  to  mind 
certain  brave  vaunters  I  had  known,  who  would  come  up  to  a 
bout  of  wrestling  with  a  right  lusty  brag,  and  straightway  set 
to  trembling  before  one  had  well  put  eyes  on  them.  At  the 
sound  of  my  voice  the  dog  wagged  his  tail,  and  crept  up 
timidly  with  his  muzzle  down,  and  licked  the  hand  I  held  out 
to  him.  All  day  he  sat  by  me  and  watched  me  at  my  work, 
looking  up  in  my  face  at  whiles  with  a  wistful  gaze,  and  I  gave 
him  a  morsel  of  oaten  cake,  which  he  ate  greedily,  seeming  to 

2<)S 


THE   DEEMSTER 

be  half  starved  of  hunger.  And  when  at  dusk  my  task  was 
finished  and  I  rose  and  got  into  the  dingy,  thinking  now  he 
would  go  his  ways  and  be  seen  of  me  no  more,  he  leaped  into 
the  boat  after  me,  and  when  we  reached  the  lugger  he  settled 
himself  in  the  corner  under  the  locker  as  if  he  had  now  fully 
considered  it  that  with  me  he  would  make  his  habitation 
henceforth. 

Having  all  things  in  readiness  for  the  fishing,  I  slipt  anchor 
upon  an  evening  towards  autumn,  as  I  reckoned,  for  the  leaves 
of  the  trammon  were  then  closing  like  a  withered  hand  and 
the  berries  of  the  hollin  were  reddening.  When  the  stars 
were  out,  but  no  moon  was  yet  showing,  I  put  about  head  to 
the  wind,  and  found  myself  in  no  wise  hampered  because 
short-handed,  for  when  I  had  to  take  in  my  sails  I  lashed  my 
tiller,  and  being  a  man  of  more  than  common  strength  of  arm, 
it  cost  me  nothing  to  step  my  mainmast. 

That  night,  and  many  nights  thereafter,  I  had  good  takings 
of  fish,  and  in  the  labour  of  looking  after  my  corks  and  making 
fast  my  seizings  the  void  in  my  mind  was  in  some  wise  filled 
with  other  matter  than  thoughts  of  my  abject  state.  But  one 
thing  troubled  me  at  first,  namely,  that  I  took  more  fish  by 
many  mazes  than  I  could  ever  consume.  To  make  an  end  of 
my  fishing  was  a  thing  I  could  not  bring  myself  to,  for  I 
counted  it  certain  that  so  to  do  would  be  to  sink  back  to  my 
former  way  of  living.  Wherefore  I  thought  it  safest  to  seek 
for  some  mode  of  disposing  of  my  fish,  such  as  would  keep  me 
at  my  present  employment  and  do  no  harm  to  my  feelings  as 
a  man,  for  with  this  I  had  now  to  reckon  watchfully,  being  in 
constant  danger,  as  I  thought,  of  losing  the  sense  of  manhood. 

So  I  soused  some  hundreds  of  my  herrings  with  rough  salt, 
which  I  distilled  from  the  salt  water  by  boiling  it  in  a  pan 
with  pebbles.  The  remainder  I  concluded  to  give  to  such  as 
would  consume  them,  and  how  to  do  this,  being  what  I  was, 
cost  me  many  bitter  thoughts,  wherein  I  seemed  to  be  the 
most  unblessed  of  all  men.  At  length  I  hit  on  a  device,  and 
straightway  brought  it  to  bear.  Leaving  my  fishing-ground 
while  the  night  was  not  yet  far  spent,  I  ran  into  the  sound 
before  dawn,  for  soon  I  learned  those  narrow  waters  until  they 
grew  familiar  as  the  palm  of  my  hand.  Then  before  the  sun 
rose  above  the  Stack  of  Scarlet,  and  while  the  eastern  sky  was 
only  dabbled  with  pink,  I,  with  a  basket  of  herrings  on  my 
shoulder,  crossed  the  moor  to  Cregneesh,  where  the  people 

294 


OF  THE   GHOSTLY   HAND   UPON   HIM 

are  poor  and  not  proud,  and,  creeping  in  between  the  cabins, 
laid  my  fish  down  in  the  open  place  that  is  before  the  little 
chapel,  and  then  went  my  way  quickly  least  a  door  should 
suddenly  open  or  a  window  be  lifted,  and  a  face  look  forth. 
Thrice  I  did  this  before  I  marked  that  there  were  those  who 
were  curious  to  know  whence  the  fish  came,  and  then  I  was 
put  on  my  mettle  to  go  into  the  village  and  yet  to  keep  my- 
self from  being  seen,  for  well  I  knew  that  if  any  eye  beheld 
me  that  knew  me  who  I  was,  there  would  henceforward  be 
an  end  of  the  eating  of  my  herrings,  even  among  the  poorest, 
and  an  end  of  my  fishing  also.  But  many  times  I  went  into 
Cregneesh  without  being  seen  of  any  man,  and  now  I  know 
not  whether  to  laugh  or  to  weep  when  I  look  back  on  the 
days  I  write  of,  and  see  myself  like  a  human  fox  stealing  in 
by  the  grey  of  dawn  among  the  sleeping  homes  of  men. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

OP  THE    GHOSTLY    HAND    UPON    HIM 

All  that  autumn  I  followed  the  herrings,  choosing  my  ground 
mainly  by  guess,  but  sometimes  seeing  the  blue  lights  of  the 
herring  fleet  rise  close  under  my  quarter,  and  at  other  times, 
when  the  air  was  still,  hearing  voices  of  men  or  the  sound  of 
laughter  rumoured  over  the  quiet  waters.  But  ever  fanciful 
to  me,  as  a  dream  of  a  friend  dead  when  it  is  past,  was  that 
sound  on  the  sea,  and  as  often  as  I  heard  it  I  took  in  my  nets 
and  hauled  my  sails,  and  stood  out  for  the  sound.  Putting  no 
light  on  my  mitch-board,  I  would  ofttimes  pass  the  fleet  within 
a  cable's  length  and  yet  not  be  known,  but  once  and  again  I 
knew  by  the  hush  of  voices  and  the  dying  away  of  laughter 
on  the  i3oats  about  me  that  my  dark  craft  was  seen  scudding 
like  a  black  bird  of  evil  omen  through  the  night. 

In  my  cabin  I  was  used  to  burn  a  tallow  dip  made  of  the 
fat  of  the  birds  I  had  shot  and  rushes  from  the  soft  places  of 
the  moor,  and  while  my  boat  drifted  under  the  mizzen  be- 
tween take  and  take  of  herrings  I  would  go  below  and  sit 
with  my  dog.  He  grew  sleek  with  the  fare  I  found  him, 
and  I  in  these  days  recovered  in  a  measure  my  sense  of  sight 
and  hearing,  for  the  sea's  breath  of  brine  is  good  to  man. 

295 


THE   DEEMSTER 

Millish  veg-veen  I  called  him,  and,  though  a  man  of  small 
cheer,  I  smiled  to  think  what  a  sorry  mis-name  that  name 
would  seem  in  our  harder  EngUsh  tongue.  For  my  poor 
mongrel  cur  had  his  little  sorry  vices,  such  as  did  oft  set  me 
wondering  what  the  chances  of  his  life  had  been,  and  whether, 
like  his  new  messmate,  he  had  not  somewhere  been  driven 
out.  Nevertheless  he  had  his  good  parts,  too,  and  was  a 
creature  of  infinite  spirits.  I  think  we  were  company  each 
to  the  other,  and  if  he  had  found  me  a  cheerier  mate-fellow,  I 
doubt  not  we  should  have  had  some  cheerful  hours  together. 

But  in  truth,  though  my  fishing  did  much  to  tear  me  away 
from  the  burden  of  myself,  it  yet  left  me  many  lonesome 
hours  wherein  my  anguish  was  sore  and  deep,  and,  looking 
to  the  years  that  might  be  before  me,  put  me  to  the  bitter 
question  whether,  being  a  man  outside  God's  grace,  I  could 
hold  out  on  so  toilsome  a  course.  Also,  when  I  fell  to  sleep  in 
the  daytime,  after  my  work  of  the  night  was  done,  I  was  much 
wrought  upon  by  troublous  dreams,  which  sometimes  brought 
back  the  very  breath  and  odour  of  my  boyish  days  with  the 
dear  souls  that  filled  them  with  joy,  and  sometimes  plagued 
me  with  awful  questions  which  in  vain  I  tried  to  answer, 
knowing  that  my  soul's  welfare  lay  therein.  And  being  much 
followed  by  the  thought  that  the  spirit  of  the  beast  of  the 
field  lay  in  wait  to  fall  on  the  spirit  of  the  man  within  me, 
I  was  also  put  to  great  terror  in  my  watchfulness  and  the 
visions  that  came  to  me  in  hours  of  idleness  and  sleep.  But 
suddenly  this  sentence  fell  on  my  mind  :  "  Thou  art  free  to  go 
whithersoever  thou  wilt,  though  it  be  the  uttermost  reaches 
of  the  earth.  Go,  then,  where  men  are,  and  so  hold  thy  soul 
as  a  man." 

Long  did  this  sentence  trouble  me,  not  being  able  to  make 
a  judgment  upon  it,  but  at  length  it  fastened  on  me  that  I 
must  follow  it,  and  that  all  the  dread  I  had  felt  hitherto  of 
the  face  of  man  was  no  more  than  a  think-so.  Thereupon  I 
concluded  that  I  would  go  into  Castletown  at  high  fair  on  the 
next  market-day,  which  I  should  know  from  other  days  by 
the  carts  I  could  descry  from  the  top  of  the  Mull  going  the 
way  of  Rushen  Church  and  Kentraugh.  This  resolve  I  never 
brought  to  bear,  for  the  same  day  whereon  I  made  it  a  great 
stroke  fell  upon  my  spirit  and  robbed  me  of  the  little  where- 
with I  had  tried  to  comfort  me. 

Going  out  of  the  sound  that  night  by  the  Spanish  Head, 
296 


OF   THE   GHOSTLY    HAND    UPON    HIM 

for  the  season  was  far  worn  and  the  herrings  lay  to  the  east- 
ward of  the  island,  I  marked  in  the  dusk  that  a  smack  that 
bore  the  Peel  brand  on  its  canvas  was  rounding  the  Chicken 
Rocks  of  the  Calf.  So  I  stood  out  well  to  sea,  and  did  not 
turn  my  head  to  the  wind,  and  cast  my  nets,  until  I  was  full 
two  leagues  from  shore.  Then  it  was  black  dark,  for  the 
night  was  heavy,  and  a  mist  lay  between  sea  and  sky.  But 
soon  thereafter  I  saw  a  blue  light  to  my  starboard  bow,  and 
guessed  that  the  smack  from  Peel  had  borne  down  in  my 
wake.  How  long  I  lay  on  that  ground  I  know  not,  for  the 
takings  were  good,  and  I  noted  not  the  passage  of  time.  But 
at  short  whiles  I  looked  towards  the  blue  light,  and  marked 
that  as  my  boat  drifted  so  did  the  smack  drift,  and  that 
we  were  yet  within  hail.  The  moon  came  out  with  white 
streamers  from  behind  a  rack  of  cloud,  and  knowing  then 
that  the  fishing  was  over  for  that  night — for  the  herring  does 
not  run  his  gills  into  mischief  when  he  has  light  to  see  by — 
I  straightway  fell  to  hauling  my  nets.  And  then  it  was  that 
I  found  the  smell  of  smoke  in  my  nostrils,  and  heard  loud 
voices  from  the  Peeltown  smack.  Lifting  my  eyes,  I  could 
at  first  see  nothing,  for  though  the  moon's  light  was  in  the 
sky,  the  mist  was  still  on  the  sea,  and  through  it  there  seemed 
to  roll  slowly,  for  the  wind  was  low,  a  tunnel  of  smoke  like 
fog.  Well  I  knew  that  something  was  amiss,  and  soon  the 
mist  lifted  like  a  dark  veil  into  the  air,  and  the  smoke  veered, 
and  a  flash  of  red  flame  rose  from  the  smack  of  the  Peelmen. 
Then  I  saw  that  the  boat  was  afire,  and  in  two  minutes  more 
the  silence  of  the  sea  was  lost  in  the  fire's  loud  hiss  and  the 
men's  yet  louder  shouts.  It  was  as  if  a  serpent  in  the  bowels 
of  the  boat  struggled  to  make  its  way  out,  and  long  tongues 
of  fire  shot  out  of  the  scuttle,  the  hold,  the  combings,  and  the 
flue  of  the  stove.  Little  thought  had  I  then  of  these  things, 
though  now  by  the  eye  of  memory  I  see  them,  and  also  the 
sinuous  trail  of  red  water  that  seemed  to  crawl  over  the  dark 
sea  from  the  boat  afire  to  the  boat  I  sailed  in.  I  had  stepped 
my  mast  and  hoisted  sail  before  yet  I  knew  what  impulse 
possessed  me,  but  with  my  hand  on  the  tiller  to  go  to  the 
relief  of  the  men  in  peril.  On  a  sudden  I  was  seized  with  a 
mighty  fear,  and  it  was  as  though  a  ghostly  hand  were  laid  on 
me  from  behind,  and  a  voice  above  the  tumult  of  that  moment 
seemed  to  cry  in  my  ears,  "  Not  for  von,  not  for  you."  Then 
in  great  terror  I  turned  my  boat's  head  away  from  the  burn- 
20  297 


THE   DEEMSTER 

ing  smack,  and  as  I  did  so  the  ghostly  hand  did  relax  and 
the  voice  did  cease  to  peal  in  mine  ears. 

''They  will  drop  into  their  dingy/'  I  said  with  myself. 
"  Yes/'  I  said,  as  the  sweat  started  cold  from  my  forehead, 
''they  will  drop  into  the  dingy  and  be  saved  ;  "  and  turning 
my  head  I  saw,  by  the  flame  of  the  fire,  that  over  the  bulwark 
at  the  stem  two  men  were  tumbling  down  into  the  small  boat 
that  they  hauled  behind.  And  I  sped  away  in  agony,  for 
now  I  knew  how  deep  was  the  wrath  upon  me,  that  it  was 
not  for  me  so  much  as  to  stretch  my  accursed  hand  to  perish- 
ing men  to  save  them.  Scarce  had  I  gone  a  cable's  leni.;th 
when  a  great  shout,  mingled  with  oaths,  made  me  to  turn 
my  head,  thinking  the  crew  of  the  boat  were  crying  curses 
down  on  me,  not  knowing  me,  for  deserting  them  in  their 
peril,  but  I  was  then  in  the  tunnel  of  smoke  wherein  I  might 
not  be  seen,  and,  lo,  I  saw  that  the  dingy  with  the  two  men 
was  sheering  off,  and  that  other  two  of  their  mates  were  left 
on  the  burning  boat. 

"  Haul  the  wind  and  run  the  waistrels  down,  d them," 

shouted  one  of  the  two  men  on  the  smack,  and  amid  the  leap- 
ing flames  the  mainsail  shot  up  and  filled,  and  a  man  stood  to 
the  tiller,  and  with  an  oath  he  shouted  to  the  two  in  the 
small  boat  that  for  their  treachery  they  should  go  down  to 
hell  straightway. 

In  the  glare  of  that  fierce  light  and  the  turmoil  of  that 
moment  my  eyes  grew  dim,  as  they  had  been  on  the  day  of 
my  cutting  off,  and  I  squeezed  their  lids  together  to  relieve 
them  of  water.  Then  I  saw  how  fearful  a  thing  was  going  on 
within  my  cable's  length.  Two  men  of  a  crew  of  four  in  the 
burning  smack  had  got  themselves  into  the  small  boat  and 
cleared  off"  without  thought  of  their  comrades  who  were  strug- 
gling to  save  their  craft,  and  now  the  two  abandoned  men, 
doomed  to  near  death  in  fire  or  water,  were  with  their  last 
power  of  life,  and  in  life's  last  moments — for  aught  they  could 
tell — thirsting  for  deadly  vengeance.  On  the  smack  went, 
with  its  canvas  bellied,  and  the  flames  shooting  through  and 
hissing  over  it,  but  just  as  it  came  by  the  small  boat  the  men 
tlierein  pulled  to  the  windward  and  it  shot  past. 

Ere  this  was  done,  and  while  the  smack's  bow  was  dead  on 
for  the  dingy,  I  too  had  sheered  round  and  was  beating  up 
after  the  burning  boat,  and  when  the  men  thereon  saw  me 
come  up  out  of  the  smoke  they  ceased  to  curse  their  false 

298 


OF  THE   GHOSTLY   HAND   UPON   HIM 

comrades  and  made  a  great  cry  of  thanks  to  God.  At  a  dis- 
tance of  six  fathoms  I  laid  to,  thinking  the  men  would  plunge 
into  the  sea  and  come  to  me,  but,  apprehending  my  thoughts, 
one  shouted  me  to  come  closer,  for  that  he  could  not  swim. 
Closer  to  the  burning  smack  I  would  not  go  from  fear  of  firing 
my  own  boat,  and  I  dared  not  to  risk  that  fate  wherein  we 
might  all  have  been  swallowed  up  together.  For  despair,  that 
fortifies  some  men,  did  make  of  me  a  coward,  and  I  stood  in 
constant  terror  of  the  coming  of  death.  So  I  stripped  me  of 
my  jacket  and  leapt  into  the  water  and  swam  to  the  boat,  and 
climbed  its  open  combings  as  best  I  could  through  the  flame 
and  heat.  On  the  deck  the  two  men  stood,  enveloped  in 
swirling  clouds  of  smoke,  but  I  saw  them  where  they  were,  and 
pulling  one  into  the  water  after  me,  the  other  followed  us,  and 
we  reached  my  boat  in  safety. 

Then,  as  I  rubbed  my  face,  for  the  fire  had  burnt  one  cheek, 
the  men  fell  to  thanking  me  in  a  shamefaced  way — as  is  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  fearing  to  show  feeling — when  on  a 
sudden  they  stopped  short,  for  they  had  lifted  their  eyes,  and 
in  the  flame  of  their  boat  had  seen  me,  and  at  the  same  moment 
I  had  looked  upon  them  and  known  them.  They  were  Illiam 
Quilleash  and  Edward  Teare,  and  they  fell  back  from  me  and 
made  for  the  bow,  and  stood  there  in  silence  together. 

Taking  the  tiller,  I  bore  in  by  tacks  for  Port-le-Mary,  and 
there  I  landed  the  men,  who  looked  not  my  way  nor  ever  spoke 
word  or  made  sign  to  me,  but  went  off  with  their  heads  down. 
And  when  I  stood  out  again  through  the  Poolvash  to  round 
the  Spanish  Head  and  make  for  my  moorings  in  the  sound, 
and  saw  the  burning  smack  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  with  a 
groan  that  came  over  the  still  waters,  its  small  boat  passed  me 
going  into  harbour,  and  the  men  who  rowed  it  were  Crennell 
and  Corkell,  and  when  they  saw  me  they  knew  me,  and  made 
a  broad  sweep  out  of  my  course.  Now  all  this  time  the  ghostly 
hand  had  been  on  ray  shoulder,  and  the  strange  voice  had 
pealed  in  mine  ears,  and  though  I  wanted  not  to  speak  with 
any  man,  nor  that  any  man  should  speak  with  me,  yet  I  will 
not  say  but  that  it  went  to  my  heart  that  I  should  be  like  as 
a  leper  from  whose  uncleanness  all  men  should  shrink  away. 

For  many  days  hereafter  this  lay  with  a  great  trouble  upon 
me,  so  that  I  let  go  my  strong  intent  of  walking  into  Castle- 
town at  high  fair,  and  put  this  question  with  myself,  whether 
it  was  written  that  I  should  carry  me  through  this  world  down 

299 


THE   DEEMSTER 

to  death's  right  ending.  Not  as  before  did  I  now  so  deeply 
abhor  myself;  but  felt  for  myself  a  secret  compassion.  In 
truth  I  had  no  bitterness  left  in  my  heart  for  my  fellow-men, 
but,  tossed  with  the  fear  that  if  I  lived  alone  much  longer  I 
must  surely  lose  my  reason,  and  hence  my  manhood,  sinking 
down  to  the  brute,  this  consideration  fell  with  weight  upon 
me:  What  thou  hast  suffered  is  from  men  who  know  thy  crime, 
and  stand  in  terror  of  the  curse  upon  thee,  wherein  thou  art 
so  blotted  out  of  the  book  of  the  living  that  without  sin  none 
may  look  thy  way :  Go  therefore  where  no  man  knows  thee, 
and  the  so  heavy  burden  thou  bearest  will  straightway  fall 
from  thee.  Now,  at  this  thought  my  heart  was  full  of  com- 
fort, and  I  went  back  to  my  former  design  of  leaving  this  place 
for  ever.  But  before  I  had  well  begun  what  I  was  minded  to 
do  a  strange  accident  befell  me,  and  the  relation  thereof  is  as 
followeth. 

By  half-flood  of  an  evening  late  in  autumn — for  though  the 
watch  showed  short  of  six  the  sun  was  already  down — I  left  my 
old  moorings  inside  the  rocks  of  Kitterland,  thinking  to  slip 
anchor  there  no  more.  The  breeze  was  fresh  in  the  sound,  and 
outside  it  was  stiff  from  the  nor'-east,  and  so  1  ran  out  with  a 
fair  wind  for  Ireland,  for  I  had  considered  with  myself  that  to 
that  country  I  would  go,  because  the  people  there  are  tender  of 
heart  and  not  favoured  by  God.  For  a  short  while  I  had  enough 
to  think  of  in  managing  my  cordage,  but  when  I  was  well  away 
to  sou'-west  of  the  Calf  suddenly  the  wind  slackened.  Then 
for  an  liour  full  I  stood  by  the  tiller  with  little  to  do,  and 
looked  back  over  the  green  waters  to  the  purple  mountains 
vanishing  in  the  dusk,  and  around  to  the  western  sky,  where 
over  the  line  of  sea  the  crimson  streamers  were  still  trailing 
where  the  sun  had  been,  like  as  the  radiance  of  a  goodly 
life  remains  a  while  after  the  man  has  gone.  And  with  that 
eye  that  sees  double,  the  thing  that  is  without  and  that 
which  is  within,  I  saw  myself  then  in  my  little  craft  on  the 
lonely  sea  like  an  uncompanionable  bird  in  the  wide  sky,  and 
my  heart  began  to  fail  me,  and  for  the  first  time  since  my 
cutting  off  I  must  have  wept.  For  I  thought  I  was  leaving 
for  ever  the  fair  island  of  my  home,  with  all  that  had  made 
it  dear  in  dearer  days.  Though  it  had  turned  its  back  on 
me  since,  and  knew  me  no  more,  but  had  blotted  out  my 
name  from  its  remembrance,  yet  it  was  mine,  and  the  only 
spot  of  earth  on  all  this  planet — go  whither  I  would — that  I 

300 


OF   THE   GHOSTLY   HAND   UPON   HIM 

could  call  my  own.  How  long  this  mood  lasted  I  hardly  can 
say,  but  over  the  boat  two  gulls  hovered  or  circled  and  cried, 
and  I  looked  up  at  their  white  transparent  wings,  for  lack 
of  better  employment,  until  the  light  was  gone  and  another 
day  had  swooned  to  another  night.  The  wind  came  up  with 
the  darkness,  and,  more  in  heart  than  before,  I  stood  out 
for  the  south  of  Ireland,  and  reached  my  old  fishing  port  of 
Kinsale  by  the  dawn  of  the  next  day. 

Tlien  in  the  gentle  sun  of  that  autumn  morning  I  walked 
up  from  the  harbour  to  the  market-place,  and  there  found 
a  strange  company  assembled  about  the  inn,  and  in  the 
midst  were  six  or  seven  poor  ship-broken  men,  shoeless,  half 
naked,  and  lean  of  cheek  from  the  long  peril  and  privation 
that  eats  the  flesh  and  makes  the  eyes  hollow.  In  the  middle 
of  the  night  they  had  come  ashore  on  a  raft,  having  lost  their 
ship  by  foundering  twelve  days  before.  This  I  learned  from 
the  gossip  of  the  people  about  them,  and  also  that  they  had 
eaten  supper  at  the  inn  and  slept  there.  While  I  stood  and 
looked  on  there  came  out  in  the  midst  of  the  group  two 
other  men,  and  one  of  them  was  their  captain  and  the  other 
the  innkeeper.  And  I  noted  well  that  the  master  of  the 
inn  was  suave  to  his  tattered  customers,  and  spoke  of  break- 
fast as  being  made  ready. 

"  But  first  go  to  the  Mayor,"  said  he,  addressing  the  captain, 
"and  make  your  protest,  and  he  will  lend  whatever  moneys 
you  want." 

The  captain,  nothing  loath,  set  out  with  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance for  the  Mayor  of  the  town,  a  servant  of  the  inn  going 
with  him  to  guide  him.  The  ship-broken  crew  stayed  behind, 
and  I,  who  was  curious  to  learn  if  their  necessities  would  be 
relieved,  remained  standing  in  the  crowd  around  them.  And 
while  we  waited,  and  the  men  sat  on  the  bench  in  front  of 
the  inn,  there  came  down  on  them  from  every  side  the  harpies 
that  find  sea-going  men  with  clothes.  There  was  one  with 
coats  and  one  with  guernseys,  and  one  with  boots  of  leather 
and  one  of  neat's-skin,  and  with  these  things  they  made  ever}'- 
man  to  fit  himself  And  if  one  asked  the  price,  and  protested 
that  he  had  got  no  money,  the  Samaritans  laughed  and  bade 
them  not  ^,o  think  of  price  or  money  until  their  captain  should 
return  from,  the  treasury  of  the  Mayor.  The  seamen  took 
all  with  good  cheer,  and  every  man  picked  out  what  he  wanted, 
and  put  it  on,  throwing  his  rags  aside  laughing. 

301 


THE   DEEMSTER 

But  presently  the  master  of  the  crew  returned,  and  his  face 
was  heavy  ;  and  when  his  men  asked  how  he  had  fared,  and 
if  the  Mayor  had  advanced  him  anything,  he  told  them  No, 
and  that  the  Mayor  had  said  he  was  no  usurer  to  lend  money. 
At  that  there  were  groans  and  oaths  from  the  crew,  and  looks 
of  bewilderment  among  those  who  had  fetched  tlie  clothes ; 
but  the  innkeeper  said  all  would  be  well,  and  that  they  hacl 
but  to  send  for  a  merchant  in  the  next  street  who  made  it 
his  trade  to  advance  money  to  ship-broken  men.  This  news 
brought  back  the  light  to  the  dark  face  of  the  captain,  and 
he  sent  the  servant  of  the  inn  to  fetch  the  merchant. 

When  this  man  came  my  mind  misgave,  for  I  saw  the  stamp 
of  uncharity  in  his  face.  But  the  captain  told  his  story, 
whereof  the  sum  was  this  : — That  they  were  the  English  crew 
of  the  brig  Betsey,  and  were  seven  days  out  from  Bristol, 
bound  for  Buenos  Ayres,  when  they  foundered  on  a  rock,  and 
had  made  their  way  thither  on  a  raft,  suffering  much  from 
hunger  and  the  cold  of  the  nights,  and  that  they  wanted  three 
pounds  advance  on  their  owners  to  carry  them  to  Dublin, 
whence  they  could  sail  for  their  own  port.  But  the  merchant 
curled  his  hard  lip  and  said  he  had  just  before  been  deceived 
by  strangers,  and  could  not  lend  money  except  to  men  of 
whom  he  knew  something;  that  they  were  strangers,  and, 
moreover,  by  their  own  words  entitled  to  no  more  than  six 
days'  pay  apiece.     And  so  he  went  his  way. 

Hardly  had  he  gone  when  the  liarpies  of  the  coats  and 
boots  and  guernseys  called  on  the  men  to  strip  off  these 
good  garments,  which  straightway  they  rolled  in  their  several 
bundles,  and  then  elbowed  themselves  out  of  the  crowd.  The 
poor  £eamen,  resuming  their  rags,  were  now  in  sad  case, 
scarce  knowing  whether  most  to  curse  their  misfortunes  or 
to  laugh  at  the  grim  turn  that  they  were  taking,  when  the 
captain,  in  a  chafe,  called  on  the  innkeeper  to  give  breakfast 
to  his  men,  for  that  he  meant  to  push  on  to  the  next  town, 
where  people  might  be  found  who  had  more  humanity. 
But  the  innkeeper,  losing  his  by-respects,  shook  his  head, 
and  asked  where  was  his  pay  to  come  from  for  what  he  had 
already  done. 

Now,  when  I  heard  this,  and  saw  the  men  rise  up  to  go  on 
their  toilsome  way  with  naked,  bleeding  feet,  suddenly  1  be- 
thought me  that,  though  I  had  little  money,  I  had  what  would 
bring  money,  and  before  I  had  taken  time  to  consider  I  had 

302 


OF   THE   GHOSTLY   HAND   UPON   HIM 

whipped  my  watch  from  my  fob  to  thrust  it  into  the  captain's 
hands.  But  when  I  would  have  parted  the  crowd  to  do  so, 
on  a  sudden  that  same  ghostly  hand  that  I  have  before  men- 
tioned seemed  to  seize  me  from  behind.  Then  on  the  instant 
I  faced  about  to  hasten  away,  for  now  the  struggle  within 
me  was  more  than  I  could  bear,  and  I  stopped  and  went  on, 
and  stopped  again  and  again  went  on,  and  all  the  time  the 
watch  was  in  my  palm,  and  the  ghostly  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
At  last,  thinking  sure  that  the  memory  of  the  seven  sea- 
going men,  hungry  and  ill-clad,  would  follow  me,  and  rise 
up  to  torment  me  on  land  and  sea,  I  wheeled  around  and  ran 
back  hot-foot  and  did  as  I  was  minded.  Then  I  walked  rapidly 
away  from  the  market-place,  and  passing  down  to  the  harbour, 
I  saw  a  Peeltown  fisherman,  and  knew  that  he  saw  me  also. 

Now,  I  should  have  been  exceeding  glad  if  this  thing  had 
never  befallen,  for  though  it  made  my  feeling  less  ungentle 
towards  the  two  men,  my  old  shipmates,  who  had  turned  from 
me  as  from  a  leper  when  I  took  them  from  the  burning  boat, 
yet  it  brought  me  to  a  sense  that  was  full  of  terror  to  my  op- 
pressed spirit,  namely,  that  though  I  might  fly  to  lands  where 
men  knew  nothing  of  my  great  crime,  yet  that  the  curse  thereof 
w^as  mostly  within  mine  own  affiioted  soul,  from  which  I  could 
never  flee  away. 

All  that  day  I  stayed  in  my  boat,  and  the  sun  shone  and 
the  sky  was  blue,  but  my  heart  was  filled  with  darkness.  And 
w  hen  night  fell  in  I  had  found  no  comfort,  for  then  I  knew  that 
from  my  outcast  state  there  was  no  escape.  This  being  so, 
whether  to  go  back  to  mine  own  island  was  now  my  question. 
Oh,  it  is  a  goodly  thing  to  lie  down  in  the  peace  of  a  mind  at 
ease  and  rise  up  from  the  refreshment  of  the  gentle  sleep.  But 
not  for  me  was  that  blessed  condition.  The  quaking  of  my 
spirit  was  more  than  I  could  well  stand  under  without  losing 
my  reason,  and  in  the  fear  of  that  mischance  lay  half  the  pain 
of  life  to  me.  Long  were  the  dark  hours,  and  when  the  soft 
daylight  came  again  I  did  resolve  that  go  back  to  my  own 
island  I  would.  For  what  was  it  to  me  though  the  world 
was  wide  if  the  little  place  I  lived  in  was  but  my  own  nar- 
row soul } 

That  night  in  the  boat  for  lack  of  the  tick  of  my  watch  there 
seemed  to  be  a  void  in  the  air  of  my  cabin.  But  when  the 
tide  was  about  the  bottom  of  the  ebb  I  heard  the  plash  of  an 
oar  alongside,  and  presently  the  sound  of  something  that  fell 

SOS 


THE   DEEMSTER 

overhead.     Next  morning  I  found  my  watch  lying  on  the  deck 
by  the  side  of  the  hatches. 

At  the  top  of  the  flood  I  Hfted  anchor  and  dropped  doAvn 
the  harbour,  having  spoken  no  word  to  any  man  since  I  sailed 
into  it. 


CHAPTER  XL 

OF  HIS  GREAT  LONELINESS 

Back  at  my  old  moorings  inside  the  rocks  of  Kitterland,  I  knew 
full  well  that  the  Almighty  Majesty  was  on  this  side  of  me 
and  on  that,  and  I  had  nothing  to  look  for  now  or  hereafter. 
But  I  think  the  extremity  of  my  condition  gave  me  some  false 
courage,  and  my  good  genius  seemed  to  say.  What  have  you 
to  lament?  You  have  health,  and  food,  and  freedom,  and 
you  live  under  no  taskmaster's  eye.  Let  the  morning  see  you 
rise  in  content,  and  let  the  night  look  on  you  lying  down  in 
thankfulness.  And  turn  not  your  face  to  the  future  to  the 
unsettling  of  your  spirit,  so  that  when  your  time  comes  you 
may  not  die  with  a  pale  face.  Then  did  I  laugh  at  my  old 
yearning  for  fellowship,  and  asked  wherefore  I  should  be 
lonely  since  I  lived  in  the  same  planet  with  other  men,  and 
had  the  same  moon  and  stars  above  my  sleep  as  hung  over  the 
busy  world  of  men.  In  such  wise  did  I  comfort  my  torn  heart, 
and  shut  it  up  from  troubling  me,  but  well  I  knew  that  I  was 
like  to  one  who  cries  peace  where  there  is  no  peace,  and  that 
in  all  my  empty  sophistry  concerning  the  moon  and  the  stars 
there  was  no  blood  of  poor  human  neighbourliness. 

Nevertheless,  I  daily  went  about  my  business,  in  pursuance 
whereof  I  walked  up  to  the  place  over  the  Black  Head  where 
I  had  planted  my  corn  and  potatoes.  These  in  their  course 
I  reaped  and  delved,  cutting  the  barley  and  rye  with  my 
clasp-knife  for  sickle,  and  digging  a  burrow  in  the  earth  for 
my  potatoes.  Little  of  either  I  had,  but  enough  for  my  frugal 
n<;eds  until  more  might  grow. 

When  my  work  was  done,  and  I  had  no  longer  any  em- 
ployment to  take  me  ashore,  the  autumn  had  sunk  to  winter, 
for  in  this  island  of  Man  the  cold  and  the  mist  come  at  a 
stride.  Then  sitting  alone  in  my  boat,  with  no  task  save  such 
as  I  could  make  for  myself,  and  no  companion  but  little  Veg- 

304 


OF   HIS   GREAT  LONELINESS 

veen,  the  strength  of  the  sophistry  wherewith  I  had  appeased 
myself  broke  down  pitifully.  The  nights  were  long  and  dark, 
and  the  sun  shone  but  rarely  for  many  days  together.  Few 
were  the  ships  that  passed  the  mouth  of  the  sound,  either  to 
east  or  west  of  it,  and  since  my  coming  to  moorage  there  no 
boat  had  crossed  its  water.  Cold  and  bleak  and  sullen  it  lay 
around  my  boat,  reflecting  no  more  the  forehead  of  the  Calf, 
and  lying  now  under  the  sunless  sky  like  a  dead  man's  face 
that  is  moved  neither  to  smiles  nor  tears.  And  an  awful 
weariness  of  the  sea  came  to  me  then,  such  as  the  loneliest 
land  never  brought  to  the  spirit  of  a  Christian  man,  for  sitting 
on  the  deck  of  my  little  swaying  craft,  with  the  beat  of  the 
sea  on  its  timbers,  and  the  sea-fowl  jabbering  on  Kitterland, 
and  perhaps  a  wild  colt  racing  the  wind  on  the  Calf,  it  came 
into  my  mind  to  think  that  as  far  as  eye  could  see  or  ear  could 
hear  there  was  nothing  around  me  but  the  hand  of  God. 
Then  all  was  darkness  within  me,  and  I  did  oft  put  the  ques- 
tion to  myself  if  it  was  possible  for  man  to  be  with  God  alone 
and  live. 

Now  it  chanced  upon  a  day  that  I  wanted  potatoes  out  of 
my  burrow  over  the  Black  Head,  and  that  returning  there- 
from towards  nightfall  I  made  a  circuit  of  the  stone  circle 
above  the  Chasms,  and  at  the  northernmost  side  of  it,  mid- 
way to  Cregneesh,  came  on  a  sight  that  arrested  my  breath. 
This  was  a  hut  built  against  a  steepness  of  rugged  land  from 
which  stones  had  sometimes  been  quarried.  The  walls  were 
of  turf ;  the  roof  was  of  gorse  and  sticks,  with  a  hole  in  it 
for  chimney.  Window  there  was  none,  and  the  doorAvay  was 
half  closed  by  a  broken  gate,  whereof  the  bars  were  inter- 
twined with  old  straw. 

Mean  it  was,  and  desolate  it  looked  on  the  wild  moorland, 
but  it  was  a  mark  of  the  hand  of  man,  and  I  who  had  dwelt 
so  long  with  God's  hand  everywhere  about  me  was  touched 
with  a  sense  of  human  friendliness.  Hearing  no  voice  within, 
I  crept  up  and  looked  into  the  little  place.  A  bed  of  straw 
was  in  one  corner,  and  facing  it  was  a  lump  of  freestone 
hollowed  out  for  the  bed  of  a  fire.  A  broken  pipe  lay  near 
this  rude  hearth,  and  the  floor  was  of  mountain  turf  worn 
bare  and  hard.  Two  sacks,  a  kettle,  a  saucepan,  and  some 
potato-parings  were  the  only  other  things  in  the  hut,  and 
poor  as  it  all  was,  it  touched  me  so  that  in  looking  upon  it  I 
thmk  my  eyes  were  wet,  because  it  was  a  man's  habitation. 

305 


THE   DEEMSTER 

I  remember  that  as  I  turned  to  go  away  the  rain  began  to 
fall,  and  the  pattering  drops  on  the  roof  seemed  to  my  eye 
and  ear  to  make  the  place  more  human. 

In  going  back  to  my  boat  that  day  I  came  nearer  to  Creg- 
neesh  than  was  my  wont  in  the  daytime,  and  though  the 
darkness  was  coming  down  from  the  mountains,  I  could  yet 
seii  into  the  streets  from  the  knoll  I  passed  over.  And  there 
in  the  unpaved  way  before  a  group  of  houses  I  saw  a  witless 
man  in  coat  and  breeches,  but  no  vest  or  shirt,  and  with  a 
rope  about  his  waist,  dancing  and  singing  to  a  httle  noisy 
crowd  gathered  about  him. 

After  that  I  had  come  upon  the  hut  my  mind  ran  much  on 
the  thought  of  it,  and  in  three  days  or  thereabouts  I  went 
back  to  look  at  it  again,  and  coming  near  to  it  from  behind 
saw  sundry  beehives  of  a  rude  fashioning  made  of  straw  and 
sticks.  Veg-veen  was  with  me,  for  he  was  now  my  constant 
company,  and  in  a  moment  he  had  bounced  in  at  the  doorway 
and  out  again  at  yet  more  speed,  with  three  of  his  kind  close 
at  his  tail.  Before  I  could  turn  me  about  to  go  away  a  man 
followed  the  dogs  out  of  the  hut,  and  he  was  the  same  witless 
being  that  I  had  seen  at  his  dancing  in  the  streets  of  Creg- 
neesh.  His  lip  lagged  low  and  his  eyes  were  dull  as  a 
rabbit's ;  on  his  head  was  a  crownless  hat  through  which  his 
hair  was  seen,  and  I  saw  that  his  breast,  where  his  shirt  should 
be,  was  blackened  as  with  soot.  I  would  have  gone  about 
my  own  employments  but  he  spoke,  telling  me  not  to  fear 
him,  for  it  was  false  that  he  was  possessed,  as  hardspoken 
people  said,  with  the  spirit  of  delusion.  I  answered  nothing 
to  this,  but  stood  and  listened  with  eyes  turned  aside,  while 
the  broken  brain  of  the  poor  creature  rambled  on. 

"  They  call  me  Billy  the  Bees,"  he  said,  "  because  I  catch 
them  and  rear  them — look,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  hives.  He 
talked  of  his  three  dogs  and  named  them,  saying  that  they 
slept  in  a  sack  together,  and  that  in  the  same  sack  he  slept 
with  them.  Something  he  said  of  the  cold  that  had  been 
coming  latterly,  and  pointed  to  the  soot  on  his  breast,  saying 
that  it  kept  him  warm.  He  told  how  he  made  a  circuit  of 
the  farmhouses  once  a  week,  dancing  and  singing  at  all  of 
them,  and  how  the  people  gave  him  barley-meal  and  eggs. 
Much  more  he  said,  but  because  the  method  of  it — where 
method  there  was  any — has  gone  from  my  memory  I  pass  it. 
That  the  m  orld  was  nigh  about  its  end  he  knew  of  a  surety, 

306 


OF   HIS   GREAT   LONELINESS 

because  he  saw  that  if  a  man  had  money  and  great  store  ol 
gear,  it  mattered  not  what  else  he  wanted.  These  with  other 
such  words  he  spoke  ramblingly,  and  I  stood  aside  and  an- 
swered him  nothing,  neither  did  I  look  up  into  his  face.  At 
last  he  said  timidly,  "  I  know  I  have  always  been  weak  in  my 
intellects,"  and  hearing  that  I  could  bear  to  hear  no  more, 
but  went  about  my  business  with  a  great  weight  of  trouble 
upon  me.  And  "  O  God,"  I  cried  that  night  in  my  agony, 
"  I  am  an  ignorant  sot,  without  the  grace  of  human  tender- 
ness or  the  gift  of  understanding.  I  am  guilty  before  Thee, 
and  no  man  careth  for  my  soul,  but  from  this  affliction,  O 
Almighty  Master,  save  me ;  save  me  from  this  degradation, 
for  it  threatens  me,  and  when  death  comes  that  stands  at 
the  foot  of  life's  awful  account  I  will  pay  its  price  with 
thankfulness." 

Now  after  this  meeting  with  the  witless  man  the  weariness 
that  I  had  felt  of  my  home  on  the  sea  lay  the  heavier  on  my 
spirits,  and  I  concluded  with  myself  that  I  should  forsake  my 
boat  and  build  me  a  home  on  the  land  within  sight  of  man's 
habitation.  So  I  walked  the  cliffs  from  the  Mull  Hills  to  the 
Noggin  Head,  and  at  last  I  lit  on  the  place  I  looked  for.  Near 
to  the  land  where  I  had  lately  broken  the  fallows  and  grown 
me  a  crop  of  corn  and  potatoes  there  were  four  roofless  walls. 
Sometime  a  house  had  stood  there,  but  being  built  on  the 
brink  of  the  great  clefts  in  the  earth  that  we  call  the  Chasms 
it  had  shrunken  in  some  settlement  of  the  ground.  This  had 
affrighted  the  poor  souls  who  inhabited  it,  and  they  had  left 
it  to  fall  into  ruins.  Such  was  the  tale  I  heard  long  after- 
wards, but  none  came  near  it  then,  and  none  have  come  near 
to  it  since.  Save  the  four  bare  walls,  and  a  wall  that  crossed  it 
midway,  nothing  was  left.  Where  the  floor  had  been  the 
grass  was  growing;  wormwood  was  in  the  settle  nook,  and 
whinberries  had  ripened  and  rotted  on  the  hearth.  The 
door  lintel  was  gone,  and  the  sill  of  the  window  was  fallen  off. 
There  was  a  round  patch  of  long  grass  where  the  well  had 
been,  and  near  to  where  the  porch  once  stood  the  trammon- 
tree  still  grew,  and  thus,  though  the  good  people  who  had 
lived  and  died  there,  been  born  and  buried,  were  gone  from 
it  for  ever,  the  sign  of  their  faith,  or  their  superstition,  lived 
after  them. 

Better  for  me  than  this  forsaken  place  it  was  hard  for  any 
place  to  be.     On  a  dangerous   spot  it  stood,  and  therefore 

307 


THE   DEEMSTER 

none  would  come  ani<^h  it.  Near  to  Cresjneesh  it  was,  and 
from  the  rising  ground  above  it  I  could  look  down  on  the 
homes  of  men.  Truly  it  looked  out  on  the  sea,  and  had  a 
gi'eat  steepness  of  shelving  rocks  going  down  to  an  awe- 
some depth,  where,  on  the  narrow  beach  of  shingle,  the 
tide  beat  with  a  woeful  moan ;  but  though  the  sea  was  so 
near,  and  the  sea-fowl  screamed  of  an  evening  from  the 
great  rock  like  a  cone  that  lifted  its  gaunt  finger  a  cable's 
length  away,  yet  to  me  it  was  within  the  very  pulse  of 
human  life. 

So  I  set  to  work,  and  roofed  it  with  driftwood  and  turf  and 
gorse  ;  and  then  with  lime  from  a  cliff  at  the  Tubdale  Creek 
in  the  Calf  I  whitened  it  within  and  without,  walls  and  roof. 
A  door  I  made  in  somewise,  and  for  a  window  I  had  a  piece 
of  transparent  skin,  having  no  glass.  And  when  all  was  made 
ready  I  moved  my  goods  from  the  boat  to  my  house,  taking 
all  that  seemed  necessary — flour,  and  meat,  and  salt,  and  my 
implements,  as  well  as  my  bed  and  the  spare  clothes  1  had, 
which  were  not  many. 

I  had  been  in  no  haste  with  this  work,  being  well  content 
with  such  employment,  but  it  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the 
day  that  I  finished  my  task  was  a  day  late  in  the  first  year 
after  my  cutting  off.  This  I  knew  because  the  nights  were 
long,  and  I  had  been  trying  with  my  watch  to  cast  on  the 
shortest  day,  and  thereby  recover  my  lost  count  of  time.  On 
the  night  of  my  first  sleeping  in  my  new  home  there  came  a 
fierce  storm  of  wind  and  rain  from  the  east.  Four  hours  the 
gale  lasted,  and  often  the  gulls  were  dashed  screaming  at  the 
walls  wherein  I  sat  by  the  first  fire  I  had  yet  kindled  on  my 
hearth.  Towards  midnight  the  wind  fell  suddenly  to  a  dead 
calm,  and,  looking  out,  I  saw  that  the  moon  was  coming  very 
bright  in  its  rising  from  behind  a  heavy  cloud  over  the  sea.  So, 
wondering  what  chance  had  befallen  my  boat — for  though  I 
had  left  it  I  had  a  tenderness  for  it  and  meant  perchance  to 
use  it  again — I  set  out  for  the  sound.  When  1  got  to  the 
head  of  the  cliff  I  could  plainly  see  the  rocks  of  Kitterland,  and 
the  whole  length  of  the  Doon  Creek,  but  where  my  boat  had 
been  moored  no  boat  could  I  see,  nor  any  trace  of  one  from 
Fistard  Head  on  the  east  to  Half- Walk  Rock  on  the  west. 
Next  morning,  under  a  bright  winter's  sun,  I  continued  the 
search  for  my  boat,  and  with  the  rising  tide  at  noon  I  saw  her 
thrown  up  on  to  the  beach  of  the  Doon,  dismasted,  without 

308 


OF   HIS   GREAT   LONELINESS 

spar  or  boom,  bilged  below  her  Avater-line,  and  altogether  a 
hopeless  hulk.  I  made  some  scabbling  shift  to  pull  her  above 
high-water  mark,  and  then  went  my  ways. 

Now  this  loss,  for  so  I  considered  it,  did  at  first  much 
depress  me,  tliinking,  with  a  bitter  envy  of  my  late  past,  that 
my  future  showed  me  a  far  more  unblessed  condition,  seeing 
that  I  was  now  for  ever  imprisoned  on  this  island,  and  could 
never  leave  it  again  whatsoever  evil  might  befall.  But  when 
I  had  thought  twice  upon  it  my  mind  came  to  that  point  that 
I  was  filled  with  gratitude :  first,  because  the  wrecking  of  my 
boat  on  the  very  day  of  my  leaving  it  seemed  to  give  assur- 
ance that,  in  making  my  home  on  the  land,  I  had  done  that 
which  was  written  for  me  to  do  ;  and  next,  because  I  must 
inevitably  have  been  swallowed  up  in  the  storm  if  I  had 
stayed  on  the  sea  a  single  night  longer.  And  my  terror  of 
death  was  such  that  to  have  escaped  the  peril  of  it  seemed 
a  greater  blessing  than  releasement  from  this  island  could 
ever  be. 

Every  day  thereafter,  and  oftenest  at  daybreak,  I  walked 
up  to  the  crest  of  the  rising  ground  at  the  back  of  my  house, 
and  stood  awhile  looking  down  on  Cregneesh,  and  watching 
for  the  white  smoke  that  lay  like  a  low  cloud  over  the  hollow 
place  wherein  Port  Erin  lay.  After  that  I  had  done  this  I 
felt  strangely  refreshed  as  by  a  sense  of  companionship,  and 
went  about  my  work,  such  as  it  was,  with  content.  But  on 
a  bitter  morning,  some  time  in  December,  as  I  thought,  I 
came  upon  a  sight  that  well-nigh  froze  my  heart  within  me, 
for,  outstretched  on  the  bare  moorland,  under  the  bleak  sky 
and  in  the  lee  of  a  thick  gorse  bush  tipped  with  yellow,  I 
found  the  witless  man,  Billy  the  Bees,  lying  cold  and  dead. 
His  bare  chest  was  blue,  as  with  starvation,  under  the  soot 
wherewith  in  his  simpleness  he  had  blackened  it,  and  his 
pinched  face  told  of  privation  and  of  pain.  And  now  that  he 
lay  stretched  out  dead  I  saw  that  he  had  been  a  man  of  my 
own  stature.  In  his  hut,  which  was  farther  away  than  my 
own  house  from  the  place  where  he  lay,  there  was  neither 
bite  nor  sup,  and  his  dogs  seemed  to  have  deserted  him  in  his 
poverty,  for  they  were  gone.  The  air  had  softened  percep- 
tibly for  some  minutes  while  I  went  thither,  and  as  I  returned 
to  the  poor  body,  wondering  what  to  do  with  it,  the  snow  be- 
gan to  fall  in  big  flakes.  "  It  will  cover  it,"  I  said  with  my- 
self.    "  The  snow  will  bury  it,"  I  thought ;  and  casting  a  look 

309 


THE   DEEMSTER 

back  over  my  shoulder,  I  went  home  with  a  great  burthen  of 
trouble  upon  me. 

All  that  day,  and  other  two  days,  the  snow  continued  to 
fall,  until  the  walls  of  my  house  were  blocked  up  to  the  level 
of  my  window,  and  I  had  to  cut  a  deep  trench  to  the  gable 
where  I  piled  my  wood.  And  for  more  than  a  week  follow- 
ing, shut  in  from  my  accustomed  walk,  I  sat  alone  in  the  great 
silence  and  tried  to  keep  my  mind  away  from  the  one  fearful 
thought  that  now  followed  it.  Remembering  those  long  hours 
and  the  sorry  employments  I  found  for  them — scrabbling  on 
all-fours  in  play  with  Millish-veg-veen,  laughing  loud,  and 
barking  back  at  the  dog's  shrill  bark,  I  could  almost  weep 
while  here  I  write  to  think  of  the  tragic  business  that  was  at 
the  same  time  lying  heavy  on  my  spirit.  Christmas  Day  fell 
while  thus  I  was  imprisoned,  for  near  to  midnight  I  heard  the 
church  bells  ring  for  Oiel  Verree. 

When  the  snow  began  to  melt  I  saw  that  the  dog  put  his 
muzzle  to  the  bottom  of  the  door  constantly,  and  as  often  as  I 
drove  him  away  he  returned  to  the  same  place.  I  will  not  say 
what  awful  thing  came  then  to  my  mind,  knowing  a  dog's 
nature,  and  how  near  to  my  door  lay  the  body  of  the  witless 
man ;  only  that  I  shuddered  with  a  fear  that  was  new  to  me 
when  I  remembered  that,  by  the  curse  I  lived  under,  the  time 
would  come  when  my  unburied  bones  would  lie  on  the  bare 
face  of  the  moor. 

As  soon  as  the  snow  had  melted  down  to  within  a  foot's 
depth  of  the  earth,  I  went  out  of  my  house  and  turned  towards 
where  my  poor  neighbour  lay ;  but  before  I  had  come  close 
to  him  I  saw  that  two  men  were  coming  over  the  hillside 
by  way  of  Port-le-Mary,  and,  wishing  not  to  be  seen  by 
them,  I  crept  back  and  lay  by  the  hinder  wall  of  my  house 
to  watch  what  they  did.  Then  I  saw  that  they  came  up 
to  the  body  of  the  witless  man  and  saw  it,  and  stood  over  it 
some  minutes  talking  earnestly,  and  tlien  passed  along  on 
their  way.  And  as  they  walked  they  turned  aside  and  came 
close  up  by  the  front  of  my  house,  and  looked  in  at  the  win- 
dow, pushing  the  skin  away.  Standing  by  the  wall,  holding 
Veg-veen  by  the  throat  lest  he  should  betray  me,  I  heard 
some  words  the  men  said  each  to  the  other  before  they 
went  on  again. 

"Well,  man,  he's  dead  at  last,  poor  craythur  "  said  one. 
"and  good  luck  too." 


OF   HOW   HE   KEPT   HIS    MANHOOD 

And  the  other  answered, "  Aw,  dear,  to  think,  to  think !  No 
man  ahve  coukl  stand  up  agen  it.     Aw,  ter'ble,  ter'ble  ! " 

"  I  was  at  the  Tynwald  myself  yander  day,"  said  the  first, 
"and  I'll  give  it  a  year,  I  was  saying,  to  finish  him,  and 
behould  ye,  he's  lying  dead  in  half  the  time." 

Then  both  together  said,  "  God  bless  me  I "  and  passed  on. 

At  that  moment  my  eyes  became  dim,  and  a  sound  as  of 
running  water  went  through  my  ears.  I  staggered  into  my 
house,  and  sat  down  by  the  cold  hearth,  for  in  my  eagerness  to 
go  forth  on  my  errand  at  first  awakening  no  fire  had  I  kindled. 
I  recalled  the  words  that  the  men  had  spoken,  and  repeated 
them  aloud  one  by  one,  and  very  slowly,  that  I  might  be  sure 
I  took  their  meaning  rightly.  This  done,  I  said  with  myself, 
"  This  error  will  go  far,  until  the  wide  island  will  say  that  he 
who  was  cut  off,  he  who  is  nameless  among  men,  is  dead." 
Dead  }  What  then  ?  I  had  heard  that  when  death  came  and 
took  away  a  bad  man,  its  twin-angel,  the  angel  of  mercy,  bent 
over  those  who  were  left  behind  on  the  earth,  and  drew  out  of 
their  softened  hearts  all  evil  report  and  all  uncharity. 

And  agreat  awe  slid  over  me  at  that  thought,  and  the  gracious 
dew  of  a  strange  peace  fell  upon  me.  But  close  behiad  it  came 
tlie  other  thought,  that  this  error  would  reach  my  father  also — • 
God  preserve  him  ! — and  Mona — God's  holy  grace  be  with 
her  ! — and  bring  them  pain.  And  then  it  came  to  me  to  think 
that  when  men  said  in  their  hearing,  "  He  whom  you  wot  of 
is  newly  dead,"  they  would  take  heart  and  answer,  "  No,  he 
died  long  ago ;  it  was  only  his  misery  and  God's  wrath  that 
died  yesterday." 

With  this  thought  I  rose  up  and  went  out,  and  put  some 
shovels  of  earth  over  the  body  of  my  poor  neighbour  that  his 
face  might  be  hidden  from  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

OF    HOW    HE    KEPT    HIS    MANHOOD 

The  great  snow  lay  long  on  the  mountains  and  died  off  in  its 
silence  like  one  who  passes  away  in  sleep.  And  the  spring 
came,  the  summer  and  the  winter  yet  again,  and  to  set  down 
in  this  writing  all  that  befell  would  be  a  weariness,  for  I  feel 

311 


THE   DEEMSTER 

as  I  write  that  the  pulse  of  my  life  is  low ;  and  neither  am  I 
one  who  can  paint  his  words  with  wit.  My  way  of  life  has 
now  grown  straight  and  even,  and  at  my  simple  employments 
I  wrought  early  and  late,  that  by  much  bodily  toil  I  might 
keep  in  check  the  distempers  of  my  mind. 

With  my  fishing-boat,  my  gun,  which  I  had  left  behind  me 
of  design,  had  been  carried  to  the  bottom  of  the  sound,  and 
when  the  hulk  of  the  lugger  drifted  up  with  the  tide  the  gun 
was  no  longer  within  her.  This  I  took  for  a  direction  to  me 
that  I  should  hunt  no  more.  Nevertheless  for  some  while  I 
went  on  to  fish  with  a  line  from  my  small  boat,  which,  being 
on  the  beach,  the  storm  had  spared.  But  soon  it  was  gotten 
into  my  head  that,  if  to  shoot  a  hare  was  an  ill  deed,  to  take 
a  cod  was  but  a  poor  business.  Well  I  knew  that  there  was 
some  touch  of  insanity  in  such  fancies,  and  that  for  man  to 
kill  and  eat  was  the  law  of  life,  and  the  rather  because  it  was 
enjoined  of  God  that  so  he  should  do.  But  being  a  man  like 
as  I  was,  cut  off  from  the  land  of  the  living,  never  more  to 
have  footing  there  for  the  great  crime  committed  of  spiiling 
blood,  I  think  it  was  not  an  ungentle  madness  that  made  me 
fear  to  take  life,  whether  wantonly  or  of  hunger's  need.  This 
dread  lay  close  to  me,  and  got  to  extremities  whereat  one  of 
healthy  mind  might  smile.  For  being  awakened  some  nights 
in  succession  by  the  nibble  of  a  mouse,  I  arose  from  my  bed  in 
the  dawn,  and  saw  the  wee  mite,  and  struck  it  with  an  iron 
rod  and  killed  it,  and  then  suffered  many  foolish  twitches,  not 
from  pity  for  the  mouse,  for  of  humanity  I  had  none  left,  but 
from  the  sudden  thought  that  the  spirit  of  its  life,  which  1  had 
driven  from  its  harmless  body,  was  now  about  me  as  an  invi- 
sible thing.  Though  I  had  fallen  into  such  a  weakness,  yet  I 
think  that  where  choice  was  none  for  one  like  me  between  the 
weakness  of  a  man  and  the  strength  of  a  beast,  I  did  least 
injury  to  my  own  nature  and  disposition  by  yielding  with 
childish  indulgence  towards  the  gentler  side. 

And  truly  it  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  mark  how  the  creatures 
of  earth  and  air  will  answer  with  confidence  to  man's  tender- 
ness, whether,  as  with  my  sahitly  father,  it  comes  of  the  love 
of  them,  or,  as  with  me,  of  the  love  of  myself  The  sea-fowl 
flew  in  at  my  door  and  pecked  up  the  morsels  that  fell  at  my 
feet;  the  wild  duck  on  the  moor  would  not  rise  though  I 
walked  within  a  stride  of  it ;  a  fat  hare  nested  in  a  hole  under 
my  house  and  came  out  at  dusk  to  nibble  the  parings  of 

312 


OF   HOW   HE   KEPT   HIS  MANHOOD 

potatoes  that  I  threw  aj:  the  door,  and,  but  for  MilHsh-veg- 
veen  and  his  sly  treacheries,  with  the  rabbits  of  the  Black 
Head  I  might  have  sported  as  with  a  kitten. 

I  could  fill  this  account  with  the  shifts  I  was  put  to  by  want 
of  many  things  that  even  a  lone  man  may  need  for  his  comfort 
or  his  cheer.  Thus,  I  was  at  pains  to  devise  a  substitute  for 
tinder,  having  lost  much  of  all  I  had  in  the  wrecking  of  my 
boat ;  and  to  find  leather  for  the  soles  of  my  shoes  when  they 
were  worn  to  the  welt  was  long  a  search. 

Yet  herein  my  case  was  but  that  of  many  another  man  who 
has  told  of  his  privation,  and  the  less  painful  was  my  position 
for  that  I  had  much  to  begin  my  battle  of  life  with.  In  this 
first  year  of  my  unblessed  condition  my  senses  not  only  re- 
covered their  wonted  strength,  but  grew  keener  than  before 
my  cutting  off.  Oft  did  my  body  seem  to  act  without  help  of 
my  intelligence,  and,  with  a  mind  on  other  matters,  I  would 
find  my  way  over  the  trackless  moor  back  to  my  home  in  the 
pitch  of  darkness,  and  never  so  much  as  stumble  by  a  stone. 
When  the  wind  was  from  the  north,  or  when  the  air  lay  still, 
I  could  hear  the  church  bells  that  rang  in  the  market  square  at 
Castletown,  and  thereby  I  knew  what  the  day  of  the  week  was. 
None  came  nigh  to  my  dwelling,  but  if  a  man  passed  it  by  at  the 
space  of  two  furlongs  I  seemed  to  feel  his  tread  on  the  turf. 

And  now,  as  I  hold  the  pen  for  these  writings,  my  hand  is 
loath  and  my  spirit  is  not  fain  to  tell  of  the  strange  humours 
of  these  times.  So  ridiculous  and  yet  so  tragic  do  they  look 
as  they  come  back  to  me  in  the  grave-clothes  of  memory,  that 
my  imagination,  being  no  longer  turned  wayward,  shrinks  from 
them  as  sorry  things  that  none  shall  see  to  be  of  nature  save 
he  who  has  lived  in  an  outcast  state.  But  if  the  eyes  I  look 
for  should  ever  read  these  lines,  the  tender  soul  behind  them 
will  bring  me  no  laughter  for  my  pains,  and  I  ask  no  tears. 
Only  for  my  weakness  let  it  be  remembered  that  the  terror  of 
my  life  was  that  the  spirit  of  madness  and  of  the  beast  of  the 
field  waited  and  watched  to  fall  upon  me  and  to  destroy  the 
spirit  of  the  man  within  me. 

It  is  not  to  be  expressed  with  what  eagerness  I  strove  to  live 
in  my  solitude  as  a  man  should  live  in  the  company  of  his 
fellows.  Down  to  the  pettiest  detail  of  personal  manners  I 
tried  to  do  as  other  men  must  be  doing.  Whatsoever  seemed 
to  be  the  habit  of  a  Christian  man,  that  I  practised,  and  (though 
all  alone  and  having  no  man's  eye  to  see  me)  with  a  grim  and 
21  313 


THE   DEEMSTER 

awesome  earnestness.  Thus  before  food,  I  not  only  washed 
but  dressed  afresh,  taking  off  the  sea-boots  or  the  curranes  I 
worked  in,  and  putting  on  my  shoes  with  silver  buckles.  My 
seaman's  jacket  I  removed  for  a  long  coat  of  blue,  and  I  was 
careful  that  my  shirt  was  spotless.  In  this  wise  I  also  never 
fyiled  to  attire  myself  in  the  evening  of  the  day  for  the  short 
hours  of  rest  between  my  work  and  my  bed.  That  my  cheeks 
should  be  kept  clean  of  hair  and  that  the  hair  of  my  head 
should  never  outgrow  itself  was  a  constant  care,  for  I  stood  in 
fear  of  the  creeping  consciousness  which  my  face  in  the  glass 
might  bring  me  that  I  was  other  than  other  men.  But  I  am 
loath  to  set  down  my  little  foolish  formalities  on  sitting  to 
meat  and  rising  from  it,  and  the  silly  ceremonies  wherewith  I 
indulged  myself  at  going  abroad  and  coming  home.  Inex- 
pressibly comic  and  ridiculous  some  of  them  would  seem  to 
me  now,  but  for  the  tragic  meaning  that  in  my  terror  underlay 
them.  And  remembering  how  much  a  defaulter  I  had  been 
in  all  such  courtesies  of  life  when  most  they  were  called  for,  I 
could  almost  laugh  to  think  how  scrupulous  I  was  in  their 
observance  when  I  was  quite  alone,  with  never  an  eye  to  see 
me,  what  I  did  or  how  I  was  clad,  or  in  what  sorry  fashion  I 
in  my  solitude  acquitted  myself  like  a  man. 

But  though  I  could  be  well  disposed  to  laugh  at  my  notions 
of  how  to  keep  my  manhood  while  compelled  to  live  the  life  of 
a  beast,  alone  like  a  wolf  and  useless  for  any  purposes  of  man 
or  the  world,  it  is  not  with  laughter  that  I  recall  another  form 
of  the  insanity  that  in  these  times  possessed  me.  This  was  the 
conviction  that  I  was  visited  by  Ewan,  Mona,  and  my  father. 
Madness  I  call  it,  but  never  did  my  pulse  beat  more  temper- 
ately or  my  brain  seem  clearer  than  when  conscious  of  these 
visitations.  If  I  had  spent  the  long  day  delving  or  gathering 
limestone  on  the  beach  of  the  Sound,  and  returned  to  my 
house  at  twilight,  I  would  perhaps  be  suddenly  aware  as  I  lifted 
tlie  latch — having  thought  only  of  my  work  until  then — that 
within  my  kitchen  these  three  sat  together,  and  that  they 
t  limed  their  eyes  to  me  as  I  entered.  Nothing  would  be  more 
convincing  to  my  intelligence  than  that  I  actually  saw  what  I 
say,  and  yet  I  always  seemed  to  know  that  it  was  not  with  my 
bodily  eyes  that  I  was  seeing.  These  indeed  were  open,  and 
I  was  broad  awake,  with  plain  power  of  common  sight  on 
common  things — my  stool,  my  table,  the  settle  I  had  made 
myself,  and  perhaps  the  fire  of  turf  that  burned  red  on  the 

314 


OF   HOW   HE   KEPT   HIS   MANHOOD 

hearth.  But  over  this  bodily  vision  there  was  a  spiritual  vision 
more  stable  than  that  of  a  dream,  more  soft  and  variable  than 
that  of  material  reality,  in  which  I  clearly  beheld  Ewan  and 
Mona  and  my  father,  and  saw  their  eyes  turn  towards  me. 
Madness  it  may  have  been,  but  I  could  say  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
White  Throne  that  what  I  speak  of  I  have  seen  not  once  or 
twice,  but  many  times. 

And  well  I  remember  how  these  visitations  affected  me  ; 
first  as  a  terror,  for  when  on  a  sudden  they  came  to  me  as  I 
lifted  the  latch,  I  would  shrink  back  and  go  away  again,  and 
return  to  my  house  with  trembling ;  and  then  as  a  strange 
comfort,  for  they  were  a  sort  of  silent  company  in  my  desola- 
tion. More  than  once,  in  these  days  of  great  loneliness,  did 
I  verily  believe  that  I  had  sat  me  down  in  the  midst  of  the 
three  to  spend  a  long  hour  in  thinking  of  the  brave  good  things 
that  might  have  been  for  all  of  us  but  for  my  headstrong 
passion,  helped  out  by  the  cruel  tangle  of  our  fate. 

One  thing  I  noted  that  even  yet  seems  strange  in  the  hours 
when  my  imagination  is  least  given  to  waywardness.  Through- 
out the  period  wherein  I  lived  in  the  boat,  and  for  some  time 
after  I  removed  me  to  my  house,  the  three  I  have  named 
seemed  to  visit  me  together  ;  but  after  that  I  had  found  my 
witless  neighbour  lying  dead  on  the  moor,  and  after  that  I 
had  heard  the  converse  of  the  men  who  mistook  his  poor  body 
for  my  own,  the  visitations  of  Mona  and  my  father  ceased 
altogether,  and  Ewan  alone  did  I  afterwards  seem  to  see. 
This  I  pondered  long,  and  at  length  it  fastened  on  me  with 
a  solemn  conviction  that  what  I  had  looked  for  had  come 
about,  and  that  the  error  that  I  was  a  dead  man  had  reached 
the  ears  of  my  father  and  of  Mona.  With  Ewan  I  sat  alone 
when  he  came  to  me,  and  oft  did  it  appear  that  we  were 
loving  company,  for  in  his  eyes  were  looks  of  deep  pit}'^,  and 
I  on  my  part  had  ceased  to  rail  at  the  blind  passion  that  had 
parted  us  flesh  from  flesh. 

These  my  writings  are  not  for  men  who  will  look  at  such 
words  as  I  have  here  set  down  with  a  cold  indifferency,  or 
my  hand  would  have  kept  me  back  from  this  revelation.  But 
tliat  I  saw  apparently  what  I  have  described  is  as  sure  before 
God  as  that  I  was  a  man  cut  off  from  the  land  of  the  living. 

A  more  material  sequel  came  of  the  finding  of  the  body  on 
the  moor.  I  was  so  closely  followed  by  dread  of  a  time  that 
was  coming  when  I  must  die,  and  stretch  out  my  body  on  the 

315 


THE   DEEMSTER 

bare  ground  with  no  man  to  give  it  Christian  burial  in  the 
earth,  that  I  could  take  no  rest  until  I  had  devised  a  means 
whereby  this  terror  might  not  haunt  me  in  my  last  hours.  In 
front  of  my  house  there  were,  as  I  have  said,  the  places  we 
call  the  Chasms,  wherein  the  rock  of  this  hungry  coast  is 
honeycombed  into  a  hundred  deep  gullies  by  the  sea.  One 
of  these  gullies  I  descended  by  means  of  a  cradle  of  rope 
swung  overthwart  a  strong  log  of  driftwood,  and  there  I  found 
a  long  shelf  of  stone,  a  deep  fissure  in  the  earth,  a  tomb  of 
shelving  rock  coated  with  fungus  and  mould,  whereto  no  dog 
could  come,  and  wherein  no  bird  of  prey  could  lift  its  wing. 
To  this  place  I  resolved  that  I  would  descend  when  the  power 
of  life  was  on  the  point  of  ebbing  away.  Having  lowered 
myself  by  my  cradle  of  rope,  I  meant  to  draw  the  cordage 
after  me,  and  then,  being  already  near  my  end,  to  lie  down 
in  this  close  gully  under  the  earth,  that  was  to  serve  me  for 
grave  and  death-bed. 

But  I  was  still  a  strong  man,  and,  ungracious  as  my  con- 
dition was,  I  shrank  from  the  thought  of  death,  and  did  what 
I  could  to  put  by  the  fear  of  it.  Never  a  da)-^  did  I  fail  to 
walk  to  the  crest  of  the  rising  ground  behind  me  and  look 
down  to  where  in  the  valley  lay  the  habitations  of  men.  Life, 
life,  life,  was  now  the  constant  cry  of  the  voice  of  my  heart, 
and  a  right  goodly  thing  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  alive,  though 
I  might  be  said  not  to  live,  but  only  to  exist. 

Whether  from  the  day  whereon  I  heard  the  converse  of  the 
two  men  who  went  by  my  house  I  was  ever  seen  of  any  man 
for  a  twelvemonth  or  more  I  scarce  can  tell.  Great  was  my 
care  to  keep  out  of  the  ways  wherein  even  the  shepherds 
walked,  and  never  a  foot  seemed  to  come  within  two  furlongs 
of  these  abandoned  parts  from  the  bleak  Black  Head  to  the 
margin  of  the  sound.  But  it  happened  upon  a  day  towards 
winter,  beginning  the  second  year  since  my  cutting  off,  that 
I  turned  towards  Port-le-Mary,  and  walking  on  with  absent 
mind,  came  nearer  than  I  had  purposed  to  the  village  over 
the  Kallow  Point.  There  I  was  suddenly  encountered  by 
four  or  five  men  who,  much  in  liquor,  were  playing  at  leap- 
frog among  the  gorse.  English  seamen  they  seemed  to  be, 
and  perhaps  from  the  brig  that  some  time  before  I  had 
noted  when  she  lay  anchored  to  the  lea  of  the  Carrick  Rock 
in  the  Poolvash  below.  At  sight  of  them  I  was  for  turning 
quickly  aside,  but  they  raised  such  a  cry  and  shot  out  such 

316 


OF   HOW   HE   KEPT    HIS   MANHOOD 

a  volley  of  levities  and  blasphemies,  that  try  how  I  would  to 
go  on  I  could  not  but  stop  on  the  instant  and  turn  my  face 
to  them. 

Then  I  saw  that  of  me  the  men  took  no  note  whatever, 
and  that  all  their  eyes  were  on  my  dog  Millish-veg-veen,  who 
was  with  me,  and  was  now  creeping  between  my  feet  with 
his  stump  of  a  tail  under  his  belly,  and  his  little  cunning  face 
full  of  terror.  "  Why,  here's  the  dog  that  killed  our  monkey," 
said  one,  and  another  shouted,  "  It's  my  old  cur,  sure  enough," 
and  a  third  laughed  and  said  he  had  kept  a  rod  in  pickle  for 
more  than  a  year,  and  the  first  cried  again  "  I'll  teach  the 
beast  to  kill  no  more  Jackeys."  Then,  before  I  >vas  yet 
fully  conscious  of  what  was  being  done,  one  of  the  brawny 
swaggerers  made  towards  us,  and  kicked  at  the  dog  with  the 
fierce  lunge  of  a  heavy  seaman's  boot.  The  dog  yelped  and 
would  have  made  off,  but  another  of  the  blusterers  kicked 
him  back,  and  then  a  third  kicked  him,  and  whatever  way 
he  tried  to  escape  between  them  one  of  them  lifted  his  foot 
and  kicked  again.  While  they  were  doing  this  I  felt  myself 
struggling  to  cry  out  to  them  to  stop,  but  not  a  syllable  could 
I  utter,  and,  like  a  man  paralysed,  I  stood  stock-still,  and 
did  nothing  to  save  my  housemate  and  only  companion  in 
life.  At  length  one  of  the  men,  laughing  a  great  royster- 
ing  laugh,  stooped  and  seized  the  dog  by  the  nape  of  the 
neck  and  swung  him  round  in  the  air.  Then  I  saw  the 
poor  cur's  piteous  look  towards  me  and  heard  its  bitter  cry  ; 
but  at  the  next  instant  it  was  flying  ten  feet  above  our 
heads,  and  when  it  fell  to  the  ground  it  was  killed  on  the 
instant. 

At  that  sight  I  heard  an  awful  groan  burst  from  my  mouth, 
and  I  saw  a  cloud  of  fire  flash  before  my  eyes.  When  next  I 
knew  what  I  was  doing  I  was  holding  one  of  the  men  by  a 
fierce  grip  about  the  waist,  and  was  swinging  him  high  above 
my  shoulders. 

Now  if  the  good  God  had  not  given  me  back  my  conscious- 
ness at  that  moment  I  know  full  well  that  at  the  next  he  who 
was  then  in  my  power  would  have  drawn  no  more  the  breath 
of  a  living  man.  But  I  felt  on  a  sudden  the  same  ghostly 
hand  upon  me  that  I  have  written  of  before,  and  heard  the 
same  ghostly  voice  in  mine  ear.  So,  dropping  the  man  gently 
to  his  feet,  as  gently  as  a  mother  might  slip  her  babe  to  its 
cot,  I  lifted  up  my  poor  mangled  beast  by  its  hinder  legs  and 

317 


THE   DEEMSTER 

turned  away  with  it.  And  as  I  went  the  other  men  fell  apart 
from  me  with  looks  of  terror,  for  they  saw  that  God  had  willed 
it  that,  with  an  awful  strength,  should  I,  a  man  of  great  pas- 
sions, go  through  life  in  peril. 

When  I  had  found  coolness  to  think  of  this  that  had  hap- 
pened I  mourned  for  the  loss  of  the  only  companion  that  had 
ever  shared  with  me  my  desolate  state ;  but  more  than  my 
grief  for  the  dog  was  my  fear  for  myself,  remembering  with 
horror  that  when  I  would  have  called  on  the  men  to  desist  I 
could  not  utter  one  word.  Truly,  it  may  have  been  the  swift 
access  of  anger  that  then  tied  my  tongue,  but  I  could  not 
question  that  my  sudden  speechlessness  told  me  I  was  losing 
the  faculty  of  speech.  This  conclusion  fastened  upon  me  with 
great  pain,  and  I  saw  that  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more  I  had 
been  zealously  preserving  the  minor  qualities  of  humanity, 
while  this  its  greatest  faculty,  speech,  that  distinguishes  man 
from  the  brute,  had  been  silently  slipping  from  me.  Preserve 
my  power  of  speech  also  I  resolved  I  would,  and  though 
an  evil  spirit  within  me  seemed  to  make  a  mock  at  me, 
and  to  say,  "Wherefore  this  anxiety  to  keep  your  speech, 
seeing  that  you  will  never  require  it,  being  a  man  cut  off 
for  ever  from  all  intercourse  with  other  men.''"  yet  I  held 
to  my  purpose. 

Then  I  asked  myself  how  I  was  to  preserve  my  speech  save 
by  much  and  frequent  speaking,  and  how  I  was  to  speak 
having  none — not  even  my  dog  now — to  speak  to.  For  to 
speak  constantly  with  myself  was  a  practice  I  shrank  from  as 
leading  perchance  to  madness,  since  I  had  noted  that  men  of 
broken  wit  were  much  given  to  mumbling  vain  words  to 
themselves.  At  last  I  concluded  that  there  was  but  one  way 
for  me,  and  that  was  to  pray.  Having  lit  on  this  thought,  I 
had  still  some  misgivings,  for  the  evil  spirit  within  me  again 
made  a  mock  at  me,  asking  why  I  should  speak  to  God,  being 
a  man  outside  God's  grace,  and  why  I  should  waste  myself  in 
the  misspent  desire  of  prayer,  seeing  that  the  Heavenly  Majesty 
had  set  His  face  from  me  in  rejecting  the  atonement  of  my 
life  which  I  had  offered  for  my  crime.  But  after  great  inward 
strivings  I  came  back  to  my  old  form  of  selfishness,  and  was 
convinced  that  though  when  I  prayed  God  would  not  hear  me, 
yet  that  the  yearning  and  uplooking  of  prayer  might  be  a 
good  thing  for  the  spiritual  part  of  my  nature  as  a  man — for 
when  was  the  beast  known  to  pray  ? 

318 


OF   THE   BREAKING   OF   THE   CURSE 

At  this  I  tried  to  recall  a  few  good  words  such  as  my  father 
used,  and  at  length,  after  much  beating  of  the  wings  of  my 
memory,  I  remembered  some  that  were  the  words  of  Bishop 
Jeremy  Taylor,  and  did  betake  myself  to  prayer  in  this  man- 
ner : — "  O  most  gracious  God,  I  tremble  to  come  into  Thy 
presence,  so  polluted  and  dishonoured  as  I  am  by  my  foul  stain 
of  sin  which  I  have  contracted  ;  but  I  must  come  or  I  perish. 
I  am  useless  to  any  purposes  of  God  and  man,  and,  like  one 
that  is  dead,  unconcerned  in  the  changes  and  necessities  of 
the  world,  living  only  to  spend  my  time,  and,  like  a  vermin, 
eat  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth.  O  my  God,  I  cannot  help  it 
now ;  miserable  man  that  I  am,  to  reduce  myself  to  so  sad 
a  state  that  I  neither  am  worthy  to  come  to  Thee  nor  dare 
I  stay  from  Thee.  The  greatness  of  my  crime  brings  me  to 
my  remedy ;  and  now  I  humbly  pray  Thee  to  be  merciful  to 
my  sin,  for  it  is  great." 

And  this  prayer  I  spoke  aloud  twice  daily  thenceforward, 
at  the  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun,  going  out  of  my 
house  and  kneeling  on  the  turf  on  the  top  of  the  Black 
Head.  And  when  I  had  prayed  I  sang  what  I  could  re- 
member of  the  psalm  that  runs,  "  It  is  good  for  me  that  I 
have  been  in  trouble  that  I  may  learn  Thy  statutes." 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  myself  a  solitary  man  in  that  lone 
place,  with  the  sea  stretching  wide  below  me,  and  only  the 
sound  of  its  heavy  beat  on  the  rocks  rising  over  me  in  the 
quiet  air. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

OF    THE    BREAKING    OF    THE    CURSE 

Thus  far  have  I  written  these  four  days  past,  amid  pain  and 
a  quick  lessening  of  the  powers  of  life.  In  sleepless  hours  of 
the  night  I  have  made  this  writing,  sitting  oftenest  by  the 
light  of  my  feeble  candles  until  the  day  has  been  blue  over 
the  sea.  And  now  that  I  glance  back  and  see  my  own  heart 
in  the  mirror  I  have  made  for  it,  I  am  like  to  one  who  has 
been  brought  through  a  fearsome  sickness,  tliat  has  left  its 
marks  upon  him,  to  look  for  the  first  time  at  his  altered  face 
in  the  glass.     And  can  it  be  that  I,  who  have  penned  these 

319 


THE   DEEMSTER 

words,  am  the  man  of  seven  years  ago  ?  Ah  !  now  I  see  how 
profound  has  been  the  change  that  my  great  punishment 
has  made  in  me,  and  perceive  the  end  of  God  in  refusing 
my  poor  atonement  of  life  for  hfe,  and  cutting  me  off  from 
^among  men. 

I  will  not  say  that  what  I  have  already  written  has  not 
cost  me  some  pangs,  and  perhaps  some  tears.  But  now  I  am 
come  to  that  place  where  I  must  tell  of  the  great  turning-point 
in  my  sad  state,  and  though  the  strength  fails  me  wherewith 
I  hold  the  pen  to  write  of  it,  my  spirit  rises  before  it  like  as 
the  lark  awakened  by  the  dawn. 

This  year — surely  the  darkest  within  the  memory  of  our 
poor  people  of  Man — began  with  more  than  its  share  of  a 
winter  of  heavy  rains.  The  spring  that  followed  was  also 
rainy,  and  when  I  looked  for  the  summer  to  begin,  the  rains 
were  still  incessant.  Heavy  and  sodden  was  the  ground  even 
of  the  moor  whereon  I  lived,  so  that  my  feet  sank  into  it  as 
into  a  morass,  and  much  of  the  seed  I  sowed  was  washed  from 
it  and  wasted.  When  at  length  the  long  rains  ceased  to  fall, 
the  year  was  far  worn  into  June,  and  then  the  sun  came 
quick  and  hot.  My  house  stood  on  a  brow  descending  to  the 
cliffs  of  the  coast,  and  beneath  me  were  less  than  two  feet  of 
mould  above  the  rock,  but  when  the  great  heat  came  after 
the  great  rain,  out  of  the  ground  there  arose  a  thick  miasmic 
mist  that  filled  the  air,  obscured  the  Hght,  lay  heavy  in  sweat 
upon  my  hair  and  flesh,  and  made  the  walls  and  floor,  the 
furniture  and  the  bed  of  my  home,  damp  and  dripping  with 
constant  dew. 

Quickly  I  set  myself  to  the  digging  of  deep  trenches  that 
went  vertically  down  the  brow  to  the  cliff  head,  and  soon  the 
ground  about  me  across  many  acres  was  drained  dry.  But 
though  I  lived  in  a  clear  air,  and  could  now  see  the  sun  as 
well  as  feel  it,  yet  I  perceived  that  the  mists  stood  in  a  wide 
half  circle  around  me  like  walls  of  rain  seen  afar,  while  the 
spot  whereon  you  stand  is  fair  and  in  the  sunshine.  In  my 
daily  walks  to  the  top  of  the  moor  I  could  no  longer  see  the 
houses  of  Cregneesh  for  the  cloud  of  vapour  that  lay  over 
them,  and  when  I  walked  to  the  Kallow  Head  for  the  first 
time  since  the  day  I  lost  my  dog,  the  basin  below,  where 
Port-le-Mary  stands,  was  even  as  a  vast  vaporous  sea,  without 
one  islet  of  house  or  hill. 

My  health  suffered  little  from  this  unaccustomed  humidity, 
320 


OF   THE   BREAKING  OF   THE   CURSE 

for  my  bodily  strength  was  ever  wonderful ;  but  my  spirits 
sank  to  a  deep  depression,  and  oft  did  I  wonder  how  the 
poor  souls  must  fare  who  lived  on  the  low,  wet  Curraghs 
near  to  where  my  own  home  once  lay.  From  day  to  day, 
and  week  to  week,  the  mist  continued  to  rise  from  the  dank 
ground  under  the  hot  sun,  and  still  the  earth  came  up  in 
thick  clods  to  the  spade. 

The  nights  alone  were  clear,  and  towards  midsummer  I  was 
witness  to  strange  sights  in  the  heavens.  Thus  I  sav/  a 
comet  pass  close  across  the  island  from  coast  to  coast,  with  a 
visible  motion  as  of  quivering  flame.  What  this  visitation 
could  foretell  I  pondered  long  and  sadly,  and  much  I  hun- 
gered for  knowledge  of  what  was  being  done  in  the  world  of 
men.  But  therein  it  seemed  to  my  wayward  mind  that  I 
was  like  a  man  buried  in  the  churchyard  while  he  is  yet 
aUve,  who  hears  the  bell  in  the  toAver  that  peals  and  tolls, 
but  has  no  window  in  his  tomb  from  which  to  see  who  comes 
to  rejoice,  and  who  to  mourn. 

When  the  fleet  of  fishing-boats  should  have  put  out  from 
Port  Erin  for  the  ground  that  lies  south  of  the  Calf,  scarce  a 
sail  could  I  see,  and  not  a  boat  had  I  noted  coming  from  the 
Poolvash,  where  Port-le-Mary  stands  above  the  bay.  From 
the  top  of  the  Mull  Hills  I  could  faintly  descry  the  road  to 
Castletown,  but  never  a  cart  on  market-day  seemed  to  pass 
over  it.  Groups  of  people  I  vaguely  saw  standing  together, 
and  once,  at  mid-day,  from  the  middle  of  a  field  of  new- 
mown  hay,  there  came  to  me  the  sounds  of  singing  and 
prayer.  Oftener  than  at  any  period  during  my  sohtary  life  I 
saw  men  on  the  mountains  or  felt  their  presence  near  me, 
for  my  senses  were  grown  very  keen.  Oftener,  also,  than 
ever  before,  the  sound  of  church  bells  seemed  to  come 
through  the  air.  And  going  to  the  beach  where  my  shat- 
tered boat  lay,  I  one  day  came  upon  another  boat  beating 
idly  down  the  waters  of  the  sound,  her  sails  flapping  in 
the  wind,  and  no  hand  at  her  tiller.  I  stood  to  watch  while 
the  little  craft  came  drifting  on  with  the  flow  of  the  tide. 
She  ran  head  on  to  the  chfF  at  Fistard,  and  then  I  went  down 
to  her,  and  found  never  a  living  soul  aboard  of  her. 

From  these  and  other  startling  occurrences  that  came  to 
me  vaguely,  as  if  by  the  one  sense  of  the  buried  man,  I  felt 
that  with  the  poor  people  of  this  island  all  was  not  well. 
But  nothing  did  I  know  of  a  certainty  until  a  day  towards 

321 


THE  DEEMSTER 

the  first  week  of  September — as  I  have  reckoned  it — and  then 
a  strange  thing  befell. 

The  sun  was  not  shining,  and  when  there  was  no  sun  there 
was  little  mist.  A  strong  wind,  too,  had  got  up  from  the  north- 
east, and  the  atmosphere  over  land  and  sea  grew  clearer  as 
the  day  wore  on.  The  wind  strengthened  after  the  turn  of 
the  ebb,  and  at  half-flood,  which  was  towards  three  in  the 
afternoon,  it  had  risen  to  the  pitch  of  a  gale,  with  heavy  swirl- 
ing rain.  The  rain  ceased  in  a  few  hours,  and  in  the  lift  of 
the  heavy  clouds  I  could  see  from  the  rising  ground  above  my 
house  a  brig  with  shortened  sail  toiling  heavily  to  the  south- 
west of  the  Calf.  She  was  struggling  in  the  strong  currents 
that  flow  there  to  get  into  the  lea  of  the  island,  but  was  beaten 
back  and  back,  never  catching  the  shelter  of  the  cliffs  for  the 
rush  of  the  wind  that  swept  over  them.  The  darkness  was 
falling  in  while  I  watched  her,  and  when  she  was  swept  back 
and  hidden  from  me  by  the  forehead  of  the  Calf  I  turned  my 
face  homeward.  Then  I  noticed  that  on  the  top  of  the  Mull 
Hills  a  great  company  of  people  had  gathered,  and  I  thought 
I  saw  that  they  were  watching  the  brig  that  was  labouring 
heavily  in  the  sea. 

That  night  I  had  close  employment  at  my  fireside,  for  I 
was  finishing  a  coat  that  I  had  some  ways  fashioned  with  my 
undeit  fingers  from  the  best  pieces  of  many  garments  that 
of  themselves  would  no  longer  hold  together.  Rough  as  a 
monk's  long  sack  it  was,  and  all  but  as  shapeless,  but  never- 
theless a  fit  companion  for  the  curranes  on  my  feet,  which 
I  had  made  some  time  before  from  the  coat  of  my  hapless 
Millish-veg-veen. 

While  I  wrought  with  my  great  sailmaker's  needle  and 
twine,  the  loud  wind  moaned  about  the  walls  of  my  house  and 
whistled  through  its  many  crevices,  and  made  the  candle 
whereby  I  worked  to  flicker  and  gutter.  Yet  my  mind  was 
more  cheerful  than  had  lately  been  its  wont,  and  I  sang  to 
myself  with  my  face  to  the  glow  of  the  fire. 

But  when  towards  ten  o'clock  the  sea  below  sent  up  a 
louder  hiss  than  before,  followed  by  a  deeper  under-groan,  sud- 
denly there  was  a  clash  at  my  window,  and  a  poor,  panting 
seamew,  with  open  beak,  came  through  it  and  fell  helpless  on 
the  floor.  I  picked  up  the  storm-beaten  creature,  and  calmed 
it,  and  patched  with  the  needle  the  skin  of  the  window  which 
it  had  broken  by  its  entrance. 

322 


OF  THE   BREAKING   OF  THE   CURSE 

Then  all  at  once  my  mind  went  back  to  the  brig  labour- 
ing in  the  sea  behind  the  Calf.  Almost  at  the  same  moment, 
and  for  the  first  time  these  seven  years,  a  quick  knock  came 
to  my  door.  I  was  startled,  and  made  no  answer,  but  stood 
stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  the  frightened  bird 
in  my  hand.  Before  I  was  yet  fully  conscious  of  what  was 
happening,  the  wooden  latch  of  the  door  had  been  lifted, 
and  a  man  had  stepped  across  the  threshold.  In  another 
moment  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  was  speak- 
ing to  me. 

"  You  will  never  find  heart  to  deny  me  shelter  on  such  a 
night  as  this  }"  he  said. 

I  answered  him  nothing.  Surely  with  my  mind  I  did  not 
hear  him,  but  only  with  mine  ears.  I  was  like  one  who  is 
awakened  suddenly  out  of  a  long  dream,  and  can  scarce  be 
sure  which  is  the  dream  and  which  the  reality,  what  is  be- 
hind and  what  is  before. 

The  man  stumbled  a  step  forward,  and  said,  speaking  falter- 
ingly,  ''I  am  faint  from  a  blow." 

He  staggered  another  pace  forward,  and  would  have  fallen, 
but  I,  recovering  in  some  measure  my  self-command,  caught 
him  in  my  arms,  and  put  him  to  sit  on  the  settle  before  the 
hearth. 

Scarce  had  he  gained  this  rest  when  his  eyelids  trembled 
and  closed,  and  he  became  insensible.  He  was  a  large,  swart, 
and  bony  man,  bearing  in  his  face  the  marks  of  life's  hard 
storms.  His  dress  was  plainly  the  dress  of  a  priest,  but  of  an 
order  of  priesthood  quite  unknown  to  me.  A  proud  poverty 
sat  upon  the  man,  and  before  I  yet  knew  wherefor  my  heart 
went  out  to  him  in  a  strange,  uncertain  reverence. 

Loosening  the  hard  collar  that  bound  his  neck,  I  made 
bare  his  throat,  and  then  moistened  his  lips  with  water. 
Some  other  offices  I  did  for  him,  such  as  with  difficulty  re- 
m  :ving  his  great  boots,  which  were  full  of  water,  and  stretch- 
ing his  feet  towards  the  fire.  I  stirred  the  peats,  too,  and  the 
glow  was  full  and  grateful.  Then  I  looked  for  the  mark  of 
the  blow  he  spoke  of,  and  found  it  where  most  it  was  to  be 
feared,  on  the  hinder  part  of  the  head.  Though  there  was 
no  blood  flowing,  yet  was  the  skull  driven  in  upon  the  brain, 
leaving  a  hollow  spot  over  a  space  that  might  have  been 
covered  by  a  copper  token. 

He  did  not  soon  return  to  consciousness,  but  toiled  hard  at 
S2S 


THE  DEEMSTER 

intervals  to  regain  it,  and  then  lapsed  back  to  a  breathless 
quiet.  And  I,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  took  a  basin  of 
lukewarm  water  and  bathed  the  wound  with  it,  damping  the 
forehead  with  water  that  was  cold.  All  this  time  the  seamew, 
which  I  had  cast  from  my  hand  when  the  priest  stumbled, 
lay  in  one  corner  panting,  its  head  down,  its  tail  up,  and  its 
powerless  wings  stretched  useless  on  either  side. 

Then  the  man,  taking  a  long  breath,  opened  his  eyes,  and 
seeing  me,  he  made  some  tender  of  gratitude.  He  told  me 
that  in  being  put  ashore  out  of  the  brig  Bridget,  from  Cork, 
in  Ireland,  he  had  been  struck  on  the  head  by  the  boom  as  it 
shifted  with  the  wind,  but  that  heeding  not  his  injury,  and 
thinking  he  could  make  Port-le-Mary  to  lie  there  that  night, 
he  had  set  out  over  the  moor,  while  his  late  comrades  of  the 
brig  put  off  from  our  perilous  coast  for  England,  whither  they 
were  bound. 

So  much  had  he  said,  speaking  painfully,  when  again  he 
fell  to  unconsciousness,  and  this  time  a  strong  delirium  took 
hold  of  him.  I  tried  not  to  hear  what  then  he  said,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  an  awful  thing  that  in  such  an  hour  of  reason's 
vanquishment  the  eye  of  man  might  look  into  the  heart  which 
only  God's  eye  should  see.  But  hear  him  I  must,  or  leave 
him  alone  in  his  present  need.  And  he  talked  loudly  of  some 
great  outrage,  wherein  helpless  women  were  thrown  on  tlie 
roads  without  shelter,  and  even  the  dead  in  their  graves  were 
desecrated.  When  he  came  to  himself  again  he  knew  that 
his  mind  had  wandered,  and  he  told  me  that  four  years  before 
he  had  been  confessor  at  the  convent  of  Port  Royal  in  France. 
He  said  that  in  that  place  they  had  been  men  and  women  of 
the  Order  of  Jansenists,  teaching  simple  goodness  and  piety. 
But  their  convent  had  been  suppressed  by  commission  of  the 
Jesuits,  and  being  banished  from  France,  he  had  fled  to  his 
native  country  of  Ireland,  where  now  he  held  the  place  of 
parish  priest.  More  in  this  manner  he  said,  but  my  mind 
was  sorely  perplexed,  and  I  cannot  recall  his  words  faithfully, 
or  rightly  tell  of  the  commerce  of  conversation  between  us, 
save  tliat  he  put  to  me  some  broken  questions  in  his  moments 
of  ease  from  pain,  and  muttered  many  times  to  himself  after 
I  had  answered  him  briefly,  or  when  I  had  answered  him  not 
at  all. 

For  the  sense  that  I  was  a  man  awakening  out  of  a  dream, 
a  long  dream  of  seven  lonesome  years,  grew  stronger  as  he 

324 


OF  THE   BREAKING   OF  THE   CURSE 

told  of  what  traffic  the  world  had  lately  seen,  and  he  himself 
been  witness  to.  And  my  old  creeping  terror  of  the  judg- 
ment upon  me  that  forbade  that  any  man  should  speak 
with  me,  or  that  I  should  speak  with  any  man,  struggled 
hard  with  the  necessity  now  before  me  to  make  a  swift 
choice  whether  I  should  turn  away  and  leave  this  man,  who 
had  sought  the  shelter  of  my  house,  or  break  through  the 
curse  that  bound  me. 

Choice  of  any  kind  I  did  not  make  with  a  conscious  mind, 
but  before  I  was  yet  aware  I  was  talking  with  the  priest,  and 
he  with  me. 

The  Priest :  He  said,  I  am  the  CathoHc  priest  that  your  good 
Bishop  sent  for  out  of  Ireland,  as  you  have  heard,  I  doubt  iiot.-^ 

Myself:  I  answered  No,  that  I  had  not  heard. 

The  Priest:  He  asked  me  did  I  live  alone  in  this  house, 
and  how  long  I  had  been  here  .'* 

Myself :  I  said.  Yes,  and  that  I  had  been  seven  years  in 
this  place  come  Christmas. 

The  Priest :  He  asked.  What,  and  do  you  never  go  up  to 
the  towns  ? 

Myself:  I  answered.  No. 

The  Priest :  Then,  said  the  priest,  thinking  long  before  he 
spoke,  you  have  not  heard  of  the  great  sickness  that  has 
broken  out  among  your  people. 

Myself :  I  told  him  I  had  heard  nothing 

The  Priest :  He  said  it  was  the  sweating  sickness,  and 
that  vast  numbers  had  fallen  to  it  and  many  had  died.  I 
think  he  said — I  cannot  be  sure—  that  after  fruitless  efforts 
of  his  own  to  combat  the  disease,  the  Bishop  of  the  island 
had  sent  to  Ireland  a  message  for  him,  having  heard  that 
the  Almighty  had  blessed  his  efforts  in  a  like  temble  scourge 
that  broke  out  two  years  before  over  the  bogs  of  western 
Ireland. 

I  listened  with  fear,  and  began  to  comprehend  much  that 
had  of  late  been  a  puzzle  to  me.  But  before  the  priest  had 
gone  far  his  sickness  overcame  him  afresh,  and  he  fell  to 
another  long  unconsciousness.  While  he  lay  thus,  very  silent 
or  rambling  afresh  through  the  ways  of  the  past,  I  know  not 
what  feelings  possessed  me,  for  my  heart  was  in  a  great 
turmoil.  But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  very  peace- 
ful in  their  quiet  light,  but  with  less  than  before  of  the 
power  of  Ufe  in  them,  he  said  he  perceived  that  his  errand 


THE   DEEMSTER 

had  been  fruitless,  and  that  he  had  but  come  to  my  house 
to  die.  At  that  word  I  started  to  my  feet  with  a  cry, 
but  he — thinking  that  my  thoughts  were  of  our  poor  people, 
who  would  lose  a  deliverer  by  his  death — told  me  to  have 
patience,  for  that  God  who  had  smitten  him  down  would 
surely  raise  up  in  his  stead  a  far  mightier  saviour  of  my 
afflicted  countrymen. 

Then  in  the  lapses  of  his  pain  he  talked  of  the  sickness 
that  had  befallen  his  own  people  :  how  it  was  due  to  long 
rains  that  soaked  the  soil,  and  was  followed  by  the  hot  sun 
that  drew  out  of  the  earth  its  foul  sweat ;  how  the  sickness 
fell  chiefly  on  such  as  had  their  houses  on  bogs  and  low-lying 
ground ;  and  how  the  cure  for  it  was  to  keep  the  body  of 
the  sick  person  closely  wrapped  in  blankets,  and  to  dry  the 
air  about  him  with  many  fires.  He  told  me,  too,  that  all 
medicines  he  had  yet  seen  given  for  this  disease  were  useless, 
and  being  oftenest  of  a  cooling  nature  went  sometimes  deadly. 
He  said  that  those  of  his  own  people  who  had  Hved  on  the 
mountains  had  escaped  the  malady.  Much  he  also  said  of 
how  men  had  fled  from  their  wives  and  women  from  their 
children  in  terror  of  the  infection,  but  that,  save  only  in  the 
worst  cases,  contagion  from  the  sweating  sickness  there  could 
be  none.  More  of  this  sort  he  said  than  I  can  well  set  down 
in  this  writing.  Often  he  spoke  with  sore  labour,  as  though 
a  strong  impulse  prompted  him.  And  I  who  listened  eagerly 
heard  what  he  said  with  a  mighty  fear,  for  well  I  knew  that 
if  death  came  to  him  as  he  foretold,  I  had  now  that  know- 
ledge which  it  must  be  sin  to  hide. 

After  he  had  said  this  the  lapses  into  unconsciousness 
were  more  frequent  than  before,  and  the  intervals  of  cool 
reason  and  sweet  respite  from  pain  were  briefer.  But  a 
short  while  after  midnight  he  came  to  himself  with  a  smile 
on  his  meagre  face  and  peace  in  his  eyes.  He  asked 
me  would  I  promise  to  do  one  thing  for  him,  for  that 
he  was  a  dying  man ;  and  I  told  him  yes  before  I  had 
heard  what  it  was  that  he  wished  of  me.  Then  he  asked 
did  I  know  where  the  Bishop  lived,  and  at  first  I  made 
no  answer. 

''  Bishop's  Court  they  call  his  house,"  he  said,  "  and  it  lies  to 
the  noith-west  of  this  island  by  the  land  they  have  named  the 
Curraghs.     Do  you  know  it .'' " 

1  bent  my  head  by  way  of  assent. 
S26 


OF   HIS   GREAT   RESOLVE 

The  Priest :  I  would  have  you  go  to  him,  he  said,  and  say — - 
The  Catholic  priest  you  sent  for  out  of  Ireland,  Father  Dalby, 
fulfilled  his  pledge  to  you  and  came  to  your  island,  but  died 
by  the  visitation  of  God  on  the  night  of  his  landing  on  your 
shores.     Will  you  deliver  me  this  message  ? 

I  did  not  make  him  an  answer,  and  he  put  the  question 
again.  Still  my  tongue  clave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  and  I 
could  not  speak. 

The  Priest :  You  need  not  fear,  he  said,  to  go  to  the 
Bishop,  for  he  is  a  holy  man,  as  I  have  heard,  without 
pride  of  worldly  place,  and  the  poor  and  outcast  are  his 
constant  guests. 

Even  yet  I  answered  nothing,  but  only  held  down  my  head 
while  my  heart  surged  within  me. 

The  Priest :  The  fame  of  him  as  a  righteous  servant  of  God 
had  gone  far  into  other  lands,  and  therefore  it  was  I,  who  love 
Protestantism  not  at  all,  and  hold  no  dalliance  with  it,  came 
to  your  island  at  his  call. 

He  took  my  hand  in  his  hands  and  asked  me  again  if  I 
would  go  to  the  Bishop  to  say  the  words  which  he  had 
given  me,  and  I,  with  swimming  eyes  that  saw  nothing  of 
the  djing  face  before  me,  bowed  my  head,  and  answered, 
"I  will  go." 

Near  three  hours  longer  he  lived,  and  much  of  that  time 
he  passed  in  a  feeble  delirium.  But  just  before  the  end  came 
he  awoke,  and  motioned  to  a  small  bag  that  hung  about  his 
waist.  I  guessed  his  meaning,  and  drawing  out  a  crucifix  I 
placed  it  in  his  hands. 

Then  he  passed  silently  away,  and  Death,  the  black  camel 
that  had  knelt  at  the  gate  of  my  lone  house  these  seven  years 
of  death-in-life,  had  entered  it  at  last  to  take  another  man 
than  me. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

OF    HIS    GREAT    RESOLVE 

When  he  had  ceased  to  breathe,  the  air  of  my  house  became 
suddenly  void  and  empty.  With  a  great  awe  upon  me  I  rose 
and  stretched  him  out  on  the  settle,  and  covered  his  white 
face  with  a  cloth.     Then  in  the  silence  I  sat  and  tried  to  think 

327 


THE   DEEMSTER 

of  the  strange  accident  that  had  that  night  befallen.  One 
thing  I  saw  with  a  fearful  certainty,  that  a  great  burden  of 
responsibility  had  fallen  upon  me.  I  thought  of  the  people 
of  this  island  perishing  in  their  sickness,  and  I  remembered 
that  I  alone  of  all  men  here  knew  how  to  succour  and  save 
them.  I  alone,  and  who  was  I  ?  The  one  man  accursed 
among  men;  the  one  man  cut  off  for  ever  from  the  company 
of  the  living ;  the  man  without  family  or  kin  or  name  among 
the  people ;  whose  flesh  no  man  might  touch  with  his  flesh ; 
whose  eye  no  other  eye  might  look  upon. 

And  thus  with  the  burden  of  responsibility  came  a  yet  more 
terrible  burden  of  doubt.  Was  it  for  me  to  break  through 
the  dread  judgment  pronounced  upon  me,  and  go  down  among 
the  people  to  heal  them  ?  And  if  I  went  would  the  people 
receive  me,  even  in  this  their  last  extreme  }  Before  the  face 
of  death  would  all  other  fears  sink  out  of  their  sight  ?  Or, 
fearing  death  itself  less  than  the  curse,  would  they  rise  up 
and  drive  me  from  them  ? 

Long  I  sat  in  the  anguish  of  black  misgivings,  and  then 
rose  and  ranged  my  room  from  side  to  side,  if  perchance  I 
might  find  some  light  in  my  darkness.  And  oft  did  the 
strangeness  of  that  night's  accidents  so  far  bewilder  me  that 
for  an  instant  it  would  seem  that  I  must  be  in  a  dream.  Once 
1  lifted  the  facecloth  from  the  face  on  the  settle  that  I  might 
be  sure  that  I  was  awake. 

At  length  it  fixed  itself  on  my  mind  that  whatsoever  the 
judgment  upon  me,  and  whatsoever  the  people's  terror  of  it, 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  bear  the  burden  that  was  now  mine 
own.  Go  down  among  my  sick  countrymen  I  should  and 
must,  let  the  end  be  what  it  wo.uld  I  Accursed  man  though  I 
was,  yet  to  fulfil  the  dead  priest's  mission  was  a  mission  where- 
with God  Himself  seemed  to  charge  me  ! 

And  now  I  scarce  can  say  how  it  had  escaped  me  that 
my  first  duty  was  to  take  the  body  of  the  priest  who  had 
died  in  my  house  to  one  of  the  churchyards  for  Christian 
burial.  There  must  have  been  some  end  of  Providence  in 
my  strange  forgetfulness,  for  if  this  thing  had  but  come 
into  my  wild  thoughts,  and  I  had  indeed  done  what  it 
was  fitting  that  I  should  do,  then  must  certain  wonderful 
consequences  have  fallen  short  of  the  blessing  with  which 
God  has  blessed  them. 

What  I  did,  thinking  no  evil,  was  to  pick  up  my  spade  and 
328 


OF   HIS   GREAT   RESOLVE 

go  out  on  the  moor  and  delve  for  the  dead  man  a  shallow 
grave.  As  I  turned  to  the  door  I  stumbled  over  something 
that  lay  on  the  floor.  Stooping  to  look  at  it,  I  found  it  to  be 
the  poor  seamew.  It  was  dead  and  stiff,  and  had  still  its 
wings  outstretched  as  if  in  the  act  of  flight. 

I  had  not  noted  until  now,  when  with  a  fearful  glance  back- 
wards I  stepped  out  into  the  night,  that  the  storm  had  gone. 
A  thick  dew-cloud  lay  deep  over  the  land,  and  the  round 
moon  was  shining  through  it.  I  cliose  a  spot  a  little  to  the 
south  of  the  stone  circle  on  the  Black  Head,  and  there  by 
the  moon's  light  1  howket  a  barrow  of  earth.  The  better 
part  of  an  hour  I  wrought,  and  when  my  work  was  done  I 
went  back  to  my  house,  and  then  the  dead  man  was 
cold.  I  took  a  piece  of  old  canvas,  and  put  it  about  the 
body,  from  head  to  feet,  wrapping  it  over  the  clothes,  and 
covering  the  face.  This  done,  I  lifted  the  dead  in  my  arms 
and  carried  it  out. 

Very  hollow  and  heavy  was  the  thud  of  my  feet  on  the 
turf  in  that  uncertain  light.  As  I  toiled  along  I  recalled  the 
promise  that  I  had  given  to  the  priest  to  see  my  father  and 
speak  with  him.  This  memory  brought  me  the  sore  pain  of  a 
wounded  tenderness,  but  it  strengthened  my  resolve.  When 
I  had  reached  the  grave  which  I  had  made  the  night  was 
near  to  morning,  the  dew-cloud  had  lifted  away,  and  out  of 
the  unseen,  murmuring  sea  that  lay  far  and  wide  in  front  of 
me  a  grey  streak,  like  an  arrow's  barb,  was  shooting  up  into 
the  darkness  of  the  sky. 

One  glance  more  I  took  at  the  dead  man's  face  in  that 
vague  fore-dawn,  and  its  swart  meagreness  seemed  to  have 
passed  off  under  death's  composing  hand. 

I  covered  the  body  with  the  earth,  and  then  I  said  my 
prayer,  for  it  was  nigh  to  my  accustomed  hour.  Also  I  sang 
my  psalm,  kneeling  with  my  face  towards  the  sea.  And 
while  I  sang  in  that  dank  air  the  sky  lightened  and  the  sun 
rose  out  of  the  deep. 

I  know  not  what  touched  me  then,  if  it  was  not  the 
finger  of  God  Himself,  but  suddenly  a  great  burden  seemed 
to  fall  from  me,  and  my  heart  grew  full  of  a  blessed  joy. 
And,  "  O  Father,"  I  cried,  "  I  am  delivered  from  the  body 
of  the  death  I  lived  in  !  I  have  lived,  I  have  died,  and  I 
live  again ! " 

i  saw  apparently  that  the  night  of  my  long  imprison- 
22  329 


THE   DEEMSTER 

ment  was  past,  that  the  doors  of  my  dungeon  were  broken 
open,  and  that  its  air  was  to  be  the  breath  of  my  nostrils 
no  more. 

Then  the  tears  gushed  from  mine  eyes  and  rained  down 
my  bony  cheeks,  for  well  I  knew  that  God  had  seen  that  I, 
even  I,  had  suffered  enough. 

And  when  I  rose  to  my  feet  from  beside  the  dead's  man's 
grave  I  felt  of  a  certainty  that  the  curse  had  fallen  away. 


His  Last  Words. 

Three  days  have  gone  since  last  I  put  my  hand  to  this 
writing,  and  now  I  know  that  though  the  curse  has  fallen 
from  me,  yet  must  its  earthly  penalties  be  mine  to  the  end. 
Sorely  weary,  and  more  sorely  ashamed,  I  have  within  these 
three  hours  past,  escaped  from  the  tumult  of  the  people. 
How  their  wild  huzzas  ring  in  my  ears !  "  God  bless  the 
priest ! "  "  Heaven  save  the  priest !  "  Their  loud  cries  of  a 
blind  gratitude,  how  they  follow  me  !  Oh,  that  I  could  fly 
from  the  memory  of  them,  and  wipe  them  out  of  my  mind ! 
There  were  those  that  appeared  to  know  me  among  the 
many  that  knew  me  not.  The  tear-stained  faces,  the  faces 
hard  and  stony,  the  faces  abashed  and  confused — how  they 
live  before  my  eyes  !  And  at  the  Tynwald,  how  the  children 
were  thrust  under  my  hand  for  my  blessing  !  My  blessing — 
mine  !  and  at  the  Tynwald  !  Thank  God,  it  is  all  over !  I 
am  away  from  it  for  ever.  Home  I  am  at  last  and  for  the 
last  time. 

Better  than  three  weeks  have  passed  since  the  priest  died 
in  my  house,  and  I  buried  him  on  the  moor.  Wliat  strange 
events  have  since  befallen,  and  in  what  a  strange  new  world ! 
The  Deemster's  terrible  end,  and  my  own  going  with  the 
priest's  message  to  the  Bishop,  my  father.  But  I  shall  not 
live  to  set  it  down.  Nor  is  it  needful  so  to  do,  for  she 
whom  I  write  for  knows  all  that  should  be  written  hence- 
forward. Everything  she  knows  save  one  thing  only,  and  if 
this  writing  should  yet  come  to  her  hand  that  also  she  will 
then  learn. 

God's  holy  grace  be  with  her !  I  have  not  seen  her.  The 
Deemster  I  have  seen,  the  Bishop  I  have  spoken  with,  and  a 
living  vision  of  our  Ewan,  his  sweet  child-daughter,  I  have 

i330 


THE   SWEATING   SICKNESS 

held  to  my  knee.  But  not  once  these  many  days  has  she 
who  is  dearest  of  all  to  me  passed  before  my  eyes.  It  is 
better  so.  I  shunned  her.  Where  she  was  tliere  I  would 
not  go.  Yet,  through  all  these  heavy  years  I  have  borne  her 
upon  my  heart.  Day  and  night  she  has  been  with  me.  Oh, 
Mona,  Mona,  my  Mona,  apart  for  ever  are  our  paths  in  this 
dim  world,  and  my  tarnished  name  is  your  reproach.  My 
love,  my  lost  love,  as  a  man  I  yearned  for  you  to  hold  you  to 
my  breast.  But  I  was  dead  to  you,  and  I  would  not  break  in 
with  an  earthly  love  that  must  be  brief  and  might  not  be 
blessed,  on  a  memory  that  death  had  purified  of  its  stains. 
Adieu,  adieu,  my  love,  my  own  Mona ;  though  we  are  never 
to  clasp  hands  again,  yet  do  I  know  that  you  will  be  with  me 
as  an  unseen  presence  when  the  hour  comes — ah !  how  soon 
— of  death's  asundering. 

For  the  power  of  life  is  low  in  me.  I  have  taken  the 
sickness.  It  is  from  the  Deemster  that  I  have  taken  it. 
No  longer  do  I  fear  death.  Yet  I  hesitate  to  do  with  my- 
self what  I  have  long  thought  that  I  would  do  when  the 
end  should  come.  "  To-morrow,"  and  "  to-morrow,"  and  "  to- 
morrow/' I  say  in  my  heart,  and  still  I  am  here. 

THE    END    OF    THE    RELATION    OF    DANIEL   MYLREA. 


CHAPTER    XLIV 

THE    SWEATING    SICKNESS 
I 

When  the  sweating  sickness  first  appeared  in  the  island,  it 
carried  off  the  lone  body  known  as  Auntie  Nan,  who  had  lived 
on  the  Curragh.  "  Death  never  came  without  an  excuse — the 
woman  was  old,"  the  people  said,  and  went  their  way.  But 
presently  a  bright  young  girl,  who  had  taken  herbs  and  broths 
and  odd  comforts  to  Auntie  Nan  while  she  lay  helpless,  was 
stricken  down.  Then  the  people  began  to  hold  their  heads 
together.  Four  days  after  the  girl  was  laid  to  rest  her  mother 
died  suddenly,  and  two  or  three  days  after  the  mother's  death 

331 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  father  was  smitten.  Then  three  other  children  died  in 
quick  succession,  and  in  less  than  three  weeks  not  a  soul  of 
that  household  was  left  alive.  This  was  on  the  south-west  of 
the  Curragh,  and  on  the  north  of  it,  near  to  the  church  at 
Andreas,  a  similar  outbreak  occurred  about  the  same  time. 
Two  old  people  named  Creer  were  the  first  to  be  taken ; 
and  a  child  at  Cregan's  farm  and  a  servant  at  the  rectory  of 
the  archdeacon  followed  quickly. 

The  truth  had  now  dawned  upon  the  people,  and  they  went 
about  with  white  faces.  It  was  the  time  of  the  hay  harvest, 
and  during  the  two  hours'  rest  for  the  midday  meal  the  hay- 
makers gathered  together  in  the  fields  for  prayer.  At  night, 
when  work  was  done,  they  met  again  in  the  streets  of  the 
villages  to  call  on  God  to  avert  His  threatened  judgment.  On 
Sundays  they  thronged  the  churches  at  morning  and  afternoon 
services,  and  in  the  evening  they  congregated  on  the  shore  to 
hear  the  Quaker  preachers,  who  went  about,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  terror,  without  hindrance  or  prosecution.  One  such 
preacher,  a  town-watch  at  Castletown,  known  as  Billy-by-Nite, 
threw  up  his  calling,  and  travelled  the  country  in  the  cart  of 
a  carrier,  prophesying  a  visitation  of  God's  wrath,  wherein 
the  houses  should  be  laid  waste  and  the  land  be  left  utterly 
desolate. 

The  sickness  spread  rapidly,  and  passed  from  the  Curraghs 
to  the  country  south  and  east  of  them.  Not  by  ones  but  tens 
were  the  dead  now  counted  day  after  day,  and  the  terror 
spread  yet  faster  than  the  malady.  The  herring  season  had 
run  a  month  only,  and  it  was  brought  to  a  swift  close.  Men 
who  came  in  from  the  boats  after  no  more  than  a  night's 
absence  were  afraid  to  go  up  to  their  homes  lest  the  sickness 
had  gone  up  before  them.  Then  they  went  out  to  sea  no 
longer,  but  rambled  for  herbs  in  the  rank  places  where  herbs 
grew,  and,  finding  them,  good  and  bad,  fit  and  unfit,  they 
boiled  and  ate  them. 

Still  the  sickness  spread,  and  the  dead  were  now  counted 
in  hundreds.  Of  doctors  there  were  but  two  in  the  island, 
and  these  two  were  closely  engaged  sitting  by  the  bedsides 
of  the  richer  folk,  feeling  the  pulse  with  one  hand  and  hold- 
ing the  watch  with  the  other.  Better  service  they  did  not 
do,  for  rich  and  poor  alike  fell  before  the  sickness. 

The  people  turned  to  the  clergy,  and  got  "  beautiful  texes," 
but  no  cure.     They  went  to  the  old  Bishop,  and  prayed  for 

332 


THE   SWEATING   SICKNESS 

the  same  help  that  he  had  given  them  in  the  old  days  of  their 
great  need.  He  tried  to  save  them  and  failed.  A  prepara- 
tion of  laudanum,  which  had  served  him  in  good  stead  for  the 
flux,  produced  no  effect  on  the  sweating  sickness.  With  other 
and  other  medicines  he  tried  and  tried  again.  His  old  head 
was  held  very  low.  "  My  poor  people/'  he  said,  with  a  look 
of  shame,  "  I  fear  that  by  reason  of  the  sins  of  me  and  mine 
the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  gone  from  me." 

Then  the  people  sent  up  a  cry  as  bitter  as  that  which  was 
wrung  from  them  long  before  when  they  were  in  the  grip  of 
their  hunger.  ''The  Sweat  is  on  us,"  they  groaned  ;  and  the 
old  Bishop,  that  he  might  not  hear  their  voice  of  reproach, 
shut  himself  up  from  them  like  a  servant  whom  the  Lord  had 
forsaken. 

Then  terror  spread  like  a  fire,  but  terror  in  some  minds 
begets  a  kind  of  courage,  and  soon  there  were  those  who  would 
no  longer  join  the  prayer-meetings  in  the  hay-fields  or  listen 
to  the  preaching  on  the  shore.  One  of  those  was  a  woman 
of  middle  life,  an  idle  slattern,  who  had  for  six  or  seven  years 
lived  a  wandering  life.  While  others  prayed  she  laughed 
mockingly,  and  protested  that  for  the  Sweat,  as  well  as  for 
every  other  scare  of  life,  there  was  no  better  preventive  than 
to  think  nothing  about  it.  She  carried  out  her  precept  by 
spending  her  days  in  the  inns  and  her  nights  on  the  roads, 
being  supported  in  her  dissolute  existence  by  secret  means, 
whereof  gossip  spoke  frequently.  The  terrified  world  about 
her,  busy  with  its  loud  prayers,  took  small  heed  of  her 
blasphemies  until  the  numbers  of  the  slain  had  risen  from 
hundreds  to  thousands.  Then  in  their  frenzy  the  people 
were  carried  away  by  superstition,  and  heard  in  the  woman's 
laughter  the  ring  of  the  devil's  own  ridicule.  Somebody 
chanced  to  see  her  early  one  morning  drawing  water  to 
bathe  her  hot  forehead,  and  before  night  of  that  day  the 
evil  word  had  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  that  it  was 
she  who  had  brought  the  sweating  sickness  by  poisoning 
the  wells. 

Thereupon  half  a  hundred  lusty  fellows,  with  fear  in 
their  wild  eyes,  gathered  in  the  Street,  and  set  out  to 
search  for  the  woman.  In  her  accustomed  haunt,  the  "  Three 
Legs  of  Man,"  they  found  her,  and  she  was  heavy  with 
drink.  They  hounded  her  out  of  the  inn  into  the  road, 
and  there,  amid    oaths   and   curses,  they   tossed   her   from 

333 


THE   DEEMSTER 

hand  to  hand  until  her  dress  was  in  rags,  her  face  .'ind  arms 
were  bleeding,  and  she  was  screaming  in  the  great  fright 
that  had  sobered  her. 

It  was  Tuesday  night,  and  the  Deemster,  who  had  been 
holding  court  at  Peeltown  late  that  day,  was  riding  home 
in  the  darkness  when  he  heard  this  tumult  in  the  road 
in  front  of  him^  Putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  came 
upon  the  scene  of  it.  Before  he  had  gathered  the  mean- 
ing of  what  w^as  proceeding  in  the  dark  road,  the  woman 
had  broken  from  her  tormentors  and  thrown  herself  before 
him,  crawling  on  the  ground  and  gripping  his  foot  in 
the  stirrup. 

"  Deemster,  save  me !  save  me.  Deemster ! "  she  cried  in 
her  frantic  terror. 

The  men  gathered  round  and  told  their  story.  The  woman 
had  poisoned  the  wells,  and  the  bad  water  had  brought  the 
Sweat.  She  was  a  charmer  by  common  report,  and  should  be 
driven  out  of  the  island. 

"  What  pedlar's  French  is  this  }  "  said  the  Deemster,  turn- 
ing hotly  on  the  crowd  about  him.  "  Men,  men,  what  for- 
gotten age  have  you  stepped  out  of  that  you  come  to  me  with 
such  drivelling,  doddering,  blank  idiocy  }  " 

But  the  woman,  carried  away  by  her  terror,  and  not  grasp- 
ing the  Deemster's  meaning,  cried  that  if  he  would  but  save 
her  she  would  confess.  Yes,  she  had  poisoned  the  wells. 
It  was  true  she  was  a  charmer.  She  acknowledged  to  the 
evil  eye.  But  save  her,  save  her,  save  her,  and  she  would 
tell  all. 

The  Deemster  listened  with  a  feverish  impatience.  "  The 
woman  lies,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  and  then  lifting  his 
voice  he  asked  if  any  one  had  a  torch.  "  Who  is  the  woman  }  " 
he  asked ;  "I  seem  to  know  her  voice." 

''  D her,  she's  a  witch,"  said  one  of  the  men,  thrusting 

his  hot  face  forward  in  the  darkness  over  the  woman's  cower- 
ing bod3\  "  Ay,  and  so  was  her  mother  before  her,"  he  said 
again. 

"  Tell  me,  woman,  what's  your  name  ?  "  said  the  Deemster 
stoutly;  but  his  question  seemed  to  break  down  as  he  asked  it. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Mally  Kerruish,"  the  woman  answered  him,  slobbering  at 
his  stirrup  in  the  dark  road  before  him. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  the  Deemster  in  a  thick  underbreath 
334 


THE   SWEATING  SICKNESS 

In  another  moment  he  had  disengaged  his  foot  from  the 
woman's  grasp  and  was  riding  away. 

That  night  Mally  Kerruish  died  miserably  of  her  fright  in 
the  Httle  tool-shed  of  a  cottage  by  the  Cross  Vein,  where  six 
years  before  her  mother  had  dropped  to  a  lingering  death 
alone. 

News  of  her  end  was  taken  straightway  to  Ballamona  by 
one  of  the  many  tongues  of  evil  rumour.  With  Jarvis 
Kerruish,  who  was  in  lace  collar  and  silver  buckled  shoes, 
the  Deemster  had  sat  down  to  supper.  He  rose,  left  his 
meat  untouched,  and  Jarvis  supped  alone.  Late  that  night 
he  said  uneasily — 

"I  intend  to  send  in  my  resignation  to  Castletown — the 
burden  of  my  office  as  Deemster  is  too  much  for  my 
strength.' 

"  Good,"  said  Jarvis ;  "  and  if,  sir,  you  should  ever  think  of 
resigning  the  management  of  your  estate  also,  you  know  with 
how  much  willingness  I  would  undertake  it,  solely  in  order 
that  you  might  spend  your  days  in  rest  and  comfort." 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  it  latterly,"  said  the  Deemster. 

Half-an-hour  thereafter  he  spent  in  an  uneasy  perambula- 
tion of  the  dining-room,  while  Jarvis  picked  his  teeth  and 
cleaned  his  nails. 

"I  think  I  must  surely  be  growing  old,"  he  said  then,  and, 
drawing  a  long  breath,  he  took  up  his  bedroom  candle. 


II 

The  sickness  increased,  the  deaths  were  many  in  the  houses 
about  Ballamona,  and  in  less  than  a  week  after  the  night  of 
Mally  Kerruish's  death,  Thorkell  Mylrea,  a  Deemster  no 
longer,  had  made  over  to  Jarvis  Kerruish  all  absolute  interest 
in  his  estates.  "  I  shall  spend  my  last  days  in  the  cause  of 
religion,"  he  said.  He  had  paid  up  his  tithe  in  pound-notes 
— five  years'  tithe  in  arrears,  with  interest  added  at  the  rate 
of  six  per  cent.  Blankets  he  had  ordered  for  the  poor  of  his 
own  parish,  a  double  blanket  for  each  family,  with  cloaks  for 
some  of  the  old  women. 

This  done,  he  relinquished  his  worldly  possessions,  and  shut 
himself  from  the  sickness  in  a  back-room  of  Ballamona,  admit- 
ting none,  and  never  stirring  abroad  except  to  go  to  church. 

335 


THE   DEEMSTER 

The  Bishop  had  newly  opened  the  chapel  at  Bishop's 
Court  for  daily  prayers,  and  of  all  constant  worshippers  there 
Thorkell  was  now  the  most  constant.  Every  morning  his  little- 
shrivelled  figure  knelt  at  the  form  before  the  Communion, 
and  from  his  blanched  lips  the  prayers  were  mumbled  audibly. 
Much  he  sought  the  Bishop's  society,  and  in  every  foolish 
trifle  he  tried  to  imitate  his  brother.  A  new  canon  of  the 
Church  had  lately  ordered  that  every  Bishop  should  wear  an 
episcopal  wig,  and  over  his  flowing  white  hair  the  Bishop  of 
Man  had  perforce  to  put  the  grotesque  head-covering.  See- 
ing this,  Thorkell  sent  to  England  for  a  periwig,  and  perched 
the  powdered  curls  on  his  own  bald  crov/n. 

The  sickness  was  at  its  worst,  the  terror  was  at  its  height, 
and  men  were  flying  from  their  sick  families  to  caves  in  the 
mountains,  when  one  day  the  Bishop  announced  in  church 
that  across  in  Ireland,  as  he  had  heard,  there  was  a  good  man 
who  had  been  blessed  under  God  with  miraculous  powers  of 
curing  this  awful  malady. 

"  Send  for  him !  send  for  him  ! "  the  people  shouted  with 
one  voice,  little  heeding  the  place  they  sat  in. 

"But,"  said  the  Bishop,  with  a  failing  voice,  "the  good 
man  is  a  Romish  Catholic — indeed,  a  Romish  priest." 

At  that  word  a  groan  came  from  the  people,  for  they  were 
Protestants  of  Protestants. 

"  Let  us  not  think  that  no  good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth," 
the  Bishop  continued.  "  And  who  shall  say,  though  we  love 
the  Papacy  not  at  all,  but  that  holy  men  adhere  to  it }  " 

There  was  a  murmur  of  disapproval. 

"My  good  people,"  the  Bishop  went  on  falteringly,  "we 
are  in  God's  hands,  and  His  anger  burns  among  us." 

The  people  broke  up  abruptly,  and  talking  of  what  the 
Bishop  had  said,  they  shook  their  heads.  But  their  terror 
continued,  and  before  its  awful  power  their  qualms  of  faith 
went  down  as  before  a  flood.  Then  they  cried,  "Send  for 
the  priest ! "  and  the  Bishop  sent  for  him. 

Seven  weary  days  passed,  and  at  length,  with  a  brighten- 
ing countenance,  the  Bishop  announced  that  the  priest  had 
answered  that  he  would  come.  Other  three  days  went  by, 
and  the  news  passed  from  north  to  south  that  in  the  brig 
Bfidget  of  Cork,  bound  for  Whitehaven,  with  liberty  to 
call  at  Peeltown,  the  Romish  priest.  Father  Dalby,  had 
sailed  for  the  Isle  of  Man. 

336 


THE   SWEATING  SICKNESS 

Then  day  after  day  the  men  went  up  to  the  hill-tops 
to  catch  sight  of  the  sail  of  an  Irish  brig.  At  last  they 
sighted  one  from  the  Mull  Hills,  and  she  was  five  leagues 
south  of  the  Calf.  But  the  wind  was  high,  and  the  brig 
laboured  hard  in  a  heavy  sea.  For  hours  the  people 
watched  her,  and  saw  her  bearing  down  into  the  most 
dangerous  currents  about  their  coast.  Night  closed  in,  and 
the  wind  rose  to  the  strength  of  a  gale.  Next  morning  at 
early  dawn  the  people  climbed  the  headlands  again,  but  no 
brig  could  they  now  see,  and  none  had  yet  made  their 
ports. 

"  She  must  be  gone  down,"  they  told  themselves,  and  so 
saying  they  went  home  with  heavy  hearts. 

But  two  days  afterwards  there  went  through  the  island 
a  thrilling  cry,  "He  is  here! — he  has  come! — the  priest!" 
And  at  that  word  a  wave  of  rosy  health  swept  over  a 
thousand  haggard  faces. 


Ill 

In  the  dark  sleeping-room  of  a  little  ivy-covered  cottage 
that  stood  end-on  to  the  high-road  through  Michael  a  blind 
woman  lay  dying  of  the  sickness.  It  was  old  Kerry  ;  and  on 
a  three-legged  stool  before  her  bed  her  husband  Hommy  sat. 
Pitiful  enough  was  Hommy' s  poor  ugly  face.  His  thick 
lubber  lips  were  drawn  heavily  downwards,  and  under  his 
besom  brows  his  little  eyes  were  red  and  his  eyelids  swollen. 
In  his  hands  he  held  a  shovel,  and  he  was  using  it  as  a  fan 
to  puff  air  into  Kerry's  face. 

'^ It's  all  as  one,  man,"  the  sick  woman  moaned.  "Ye' re 
only  keeping  the  breath  in  me.      I'm  bound  to  lave  ye." 

And  thereupon  Hommy  groaned  lustily  and  redoubled  his 
efforts  with  the  shovel.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  a  lady  entered.  It  was  Mona,  pale  of  face,  but  very 
beautiful  in  her  pallor,  and  with  an  air  of  restful  sadness. 

"  And  how  are  you  now,  dear  Kerry  }  "  she  asked,  leaning 
over  the  bed. 

"  Middling  badly,  mam,"  Kerry  answered  feebly.  "  I'll  be 
took,  sarten  sure,  as  the  saying  is." 

"  Don't  lose  heart,  Kerry.  Have  you  not  heard  that  the 
priest  is  coming  }  " 

337 


THE  DEEMSTER 

"  Chut,  mam  !  I'll  be  gone,  plaze  God,  where  none  of  the 
like  will  follow  me." 

"  Hush,  Kerry  !  He  was  in  Patrick  yesterday ;  he  will 
be  in  German  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day  he  will  be  here 
in  Michael.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  is  doing  wonders  with 
the  sick." 

Kerry  turned  face  to  the  wall,  and  Hommy  talked  with 
Mona.  What  was  to  become  of  him  when  Kerry  was  gone  i 
Who  would  be  left  to  give  him  a  bit  of  a  tidy  funeral }  The 
Deemster.'*  Bad  sess  to  the  like  of  him.  What  could  be 
expected  from  a  master  who  had  turned  his  own  daughter 
out  of  doors  } 

"  I  am  better  where  I  am,"  Mona  whispered,  and  that  was 
her  sole  answer  to  the  deaf  man's  too  audible  questions. 
And  Hommy,  after  a  pause,  assented  to  the  statement  with 
his  familiar  comment,  ''  The  Bishop's  a  rael  ould  archangel, 
so  he  is." 

Thereupon  Kerry  turned  her  gaze  from  the  wall  and  said 
"  Didn't  I  tell  ye,  mam,  that  he  wasn't  dead  }  " 

''Who.?" 

"Why — him — him  that  we  mayn't  name — him.'* 

"  Hush,  dear  Kerry,  he  died  long  ago." 

''  I  tell  ye,  mam,  he's  a  living  man,  and  coming  back — I 
know  it — he's  coming  back  immadient — I  saw  him." 

"  Drop  it,  woman ;  it's  drames,"  said  Hommy. 

"I  saw  him  last  night  as  plain  as  plain — ^wearing  a 
long  grey  sack  and  curranes  on  his  feet,  and  a  queer  sort 
of  hat." 

"  It  must  have  been  the  priest  that  you  saw  in  your  dream, 
dear  Kerry." 

The  sick  woman  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and  answered 
eagerly,  "  I  tell  you  no,  mam,  but  him — him." 

''  Lie  still,  Kerry ;  you  will  be  worse  if  you  uncover  your- 
self to  the  cool  air." 

There  was  a  moment's  quiet,  and  then  the  blind  woman 
said  finally,  "I'm  going  where  I'll  have  my  eyes  same  as 
another  body." 

At  that  Hommy's  rugged  face  broadened  to  a  look  oi 
gruesome  sorrow,  and  he  renewed  his  exertions  with  the 
shoveL 


S3B 


THE  SWEATING   SICKNESS 


IV 

At  seven  o'clock  that  day  the  darkness  had  closed  in.  A 
bright  turf  fire  burned  in  a  room  in  Bishop's  Court,  and  the 
Bishop  sat  before  it  with  his  slippered  feet  on  a  sheepskin 
rug.  His  face  was  mellower  than  of  old,  and  showed  less  of 
strength  and  more  of  sadness.  Mona  stood  at  a  tea-table  by 
his  side,  cutting  slices  of  bread  and  butter. 

A  white  face,  with  eyes  of  fear,  looked  in  at  the  dark 
window.  It  was  Davy  Fayle.  He  was  but  little  older  to 
look  upon  for  the  seven  years  that  had  gone  heavily  over 
his  troubled  head.  His  simple  look  was  as  vacant  and  his 
lagging  lip  hung  as  low;  but  his  sluggish  intellect  had 
that  night  become  suddenly  charged  with  a  ready  man's 
swiftness. 

Mona  went  to  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  she  said  ;  but  Davy 
would  not  come.  He  must  speak  with  her  outside,  and  she 
went  out  to  him. 

He  was  trembling  visibly. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Mistress  Mona,"  said  Davy,  in  a  voice  of  great  emotion, 
''it's  as  true  as  the  living  God." 

"  What  ?  "  she  said. 

"  He's  alive — ould  Kerry  said  true — he's  alive,  and  coming 
back." 

Mona  glanced  into  his  face  by  the  dull  light  that  came 
through  the  window.  His  eyes,  usually  dull  and  vacant,  were 
aflame  with  a  strange  fire.  She  laid  one  hand  on  the  door- 
jamb,  and  said,  catching  her  breath,  "  Davy,  remember  what 
the  men  said  long  ago — that  they  saw  him  lying  in  the 
snow." 

"  He's  alive.  Tin  telling  you — I've  seen  him  with  my  own 
eyes." 

''Where.?" 

"  I  went  down  to  Patrick  this  morning  to  meet  the  priest 
coming  up — but  it's  no  priest  at  all — it's — it's — it's  him." 

Again  Mona  drew  her  breath  audibly. 

"Think  what  you  are  saying,  Davy.  If  it  should  not  be 
true  !     Oh,  if  you  should  be  mistaken  ! " 

"  It's  Bible  truth.  Mistress  Mona — I'll  go  bail  on  it  afore 
Uod  A' mighty." 

339 


THE   DEEMSTER 

"  The  priestj  you  say  ?  " 

"  Aw,  lave  it  to  me  to  know  Mastha — I  mean — him." 

"1   must  go  in,   Davy.      Good-night  to  you,  and  thank 

you Good-night,  and "  the  plaintive  tenderness  of 

her  voice  broke  down  to  a  sob.  *'Oh,  what  can  it  all 
mean  }  "  she  exclaimed  more  vehemently. 

Davy  turned  away.  The  low  moan  of  the  sea  came  up 
through  the  dark  night. 


It  happened  that  after  service  the  next  morning  the  Bishop 
and  Thorkell  walked  out  of  the  chapel  side  by  side. 

"We  are  old  men  now,  Gilchrist,"  said  Thorkell,  "and 
should  be  good  friends  together." 

"  That  is  so,"  the  Bishop  answered.     . 

"  We've  both  lost  a  son,  and  can  feel  for  each  other." 

The  Bishop  made  no  reply. 

"We're  childless  men,  in  fact." 

"  There's  Mona,  God  bless  her  !  "  the  Bishop  said  very  softly. 

"True,  true,"  said  Thorkell,  and  there  was  silence  for  a 
moment. 

"It  was  partly  her  fault  when  she  left  me — partly, 
I  say; — don't  you  think  so,  Gilchrist.^"  said  Thorkell  ner- 
vously. 

"  She's  a  dear  sweet  soul,"  the  Bishop  said. 

"  It's  true." 

They  stepped  on  a  few  paces,  and  passed  by  the  spot 
whereon  the  two  fishermen  laid  down  their  dread  burden 
from  the  Mooragh  seven  years  before.  Then  Thorkell  spoke 
again  and  in  a  feverish  voice. 

"D'ye  know,  Gilchrist,  I  sometimes  awake  in  the  night 
crying  '  Ewan  !  Ewan  !  *  " 

The  Bishop  did  not  answer,  and  Thorkell,  in  another  tone, 
asked  when  the  Irish  priest  was  to  reach  Michael. 

"He  may  be  here  to-morrow,"  the  Bishop  said. 

Thorkell  shuddered. 

"  It  must  be  that  God  is  revenging  Himself  upon  us  with 
this  fearful  scourge." 

"  It  dishonours  God  to  say  so,"  the  Bishop  replied.  "  He 
is  calling  upon  us  to  repent." 

340 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  Thorkell  asked  what 
a  man  should  do  to  set  things  right  in  this  world  if  per- 
chance he  had  taken  a  little  more  in  usury  than  was  fair  and 
honest. 

"Give  back  whatever  was  more  than  justice,"  said  the 
Bishop  promptly. 

''But  that  is  often  impossible,  Gilchrist." 

"If  he  has  robbed  the  widow,  and  she  is  dead,  let  him 
repay  the  fatherless." 

"  It  is  impossible — I  tell  you,  Gilchrist,  it  is  impossible- 
impossible." 

As  they  were  entering  the  house,  Thorkell  asked  if 
there  was  truth  in  the  rumour  that  the  wells  had  been 
charmed.  • 

"  To  believe  such  stories  is  to  be  drawn  off  from  a  trust  in 
God  and  a  dependence  on  His  good  providence,"  said  the 
Bishop. 

"But  I  must  say,  brother,  that  strange  things  are  known 
to  happen.  Now  I  myself  have  witnessed  extraordinary 
fulfilments." 

"Superstition  is  a  forsaking  of  God,  whom  we  have 
most  need  to  fly  to  in  trouble  and  distress,"  the  Bishop 
answered. 

"  True — very  true — I  loathe  it ;  but  still  it's  a  sort  of 
religion,  isn't  it,  Gilchrist  }  " 

"So  the  wise  man  says — as  the  ape  is  a  sort  of  a  man." 


VI 

Tliree  days  later  the  word  went  round  that  he  who  had 
been  looked  for  was  come  to  Michael,  and  many  went  out  to 
meet  him.  He  was  a  stalwart  man,  straight  and  tall,  bony 
and  muscular.  His  dress  was  poverty's  own  livery :  a  grey 
shapeless  sack-coat,  reaching  below  his  knees,  curranes  on  his 
feet  of  untanned  skin  with  open  clocks, 'and  a  cap  of  cloth, 
half  helmet  and  half  hood,  drawn  closely  down  over  his 
head.  His  cheeks  were  shaven  and  deeply  bronzed.  The 
expression  of  his  face  was  of  a  strange  commingling  of 
strength  and  tenderness.  His  gestures  were  few,  slow,  and 
gentle.  His  measured  step  was  a  rhythmic  stride — the  stride 
of  a  man  who  has  learned  in  the  long  endurance  of  soHtude 

341 


THE   DEEMSTER 

to  walk  alone  in  the  ways  of  the  world.  He  spoke  little, 
and  scarcely  answered  the  questions  which  were  put  to 
him.  "  Aw,  but  I  seem  to  have  seen  the  good  man  in  my 
drames/'  said  one ;  and  some  said  "  Ay "  to  that,  and  some 
laughed  at  it. 

Within  six  hours  of  his  coming  he  had  set  the  whole  parish 
to  work.  Half  of  the  men  he  sent  up  into  the  mountains  to 
cut  gorse  and  drag  it  down  to  the  Curraghs  in  piles  of  ten 
feet  high,  tied  about  with  long  sheep  lankets  of  twisted 
straw.  The  other  half  he  set  to  dig  trenches  in  the  marshy 
places.  He  made  the  women  to  kindle  a  turf  fire  in  every 
room  with  a  chimney-flue,  and  when  night  came  he  had 
great  fires  of  gorse,  peat,  withered  vegetation,  and  dried  sea- 
wrack  built  on  the  open  spaces  about  the  houses  in  which 
the  sickness  had  broken  out.  He  seemed  neither  to  rest  nor 
eat.  From  sick  house  to  sick  house,  from  trench  to  trench, 
and  fire  to  fire,  he  moved  on  with  his  strong  step.  And 
behind  him  at  all  times,  having  never  a  word  from  him  and 
never  a  look,  but  trudging  along  at  his  heels  like  a  dog,  was 
the  man-lad  Davy  Fayle. 

Many  of  the  affrighted  people  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
mountains  returned  to  their  homes  at  his  coming,  but  others, 
husbands  and  fathers  chiefly,  remained  on  the  hills,  leaving 
their  wives  and  families  to  fend  for  themselves.  Seeing  this, 
he  went  up  and  found  some  of  them  in  their  hiding-places, 
and,  shaming  them  out  of  their  cowardice,  brought  them 
back  behind  him,  more  docile  than  sheep  behind  a  shepherd. 
When  the  ex-town-watch,  Billy-by-Nite,  next  appeared  on 
the  Curraghs  in  the  round  of  his  prophetic  itineration,  the 
strange  man  said  not  a  word,  but  he  cut  short  the  vehement 
jeremiad  by  taking  the  Quaker  prophet  by  legs  and  neck, 
and  throwing  him  headlong  into  one  of  the  drain-troughs 
newly  dug  in  the  dampest  places. 

But  the  strength  of  this  silent  man  was  no  more  conspicu- 
ous than  his  tenderness.  When  in  the  frenzy  of  their  fever 
the  sufferers  would  cast  off  their  clothes,  and  try  to  rise  from 
their  beds  and  rush  into  the  cooler  air  from  the  heat  by 
which  he  had  surrounded  them,  his  big  horny  hands  would 
restrain  them  with  a  great  gentleness. 

Before  he  had  been  five  days  in  Michael  and  on  the 
Curraghs  the  sickness  began  to  abate.  The  deaths  were 
fewer,  and  some  of  the  sick  rose  from  their  beds.     Then  the 

342 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS 

people  plied  him  with  many  questions,  and  would  have  over- 
whelmed him  with  their  rude  gratitude.  To  their  questions 
he  gave  few  answers,  and  when  they  thanked  him  he  turned 
and  left  them. 

They  said  that  their  Bishop,  who  was  grown  feeble,  the 
good  ould  angel,  thought  it  strange  that  he  had  not  yet 
visited  him.  To  this  he  answered  briefly  that  before  leaving 
the  parish  he  would  go  to  Bishop's  Court. 

They  told  him  that  Mistress  Mona,  daughter  of  the 
Dempster  that  was,  bad  sess  to  him,  had  been  seeking  him 
high  and  low.  At  this  his  lip  trembled,  and  he  bent  his 
head. 

"The  good  man's  face  plagues  me  mortal,"  said  old 
Billy-the-Gawk.  "Whiles  I  know  it,  and  other  whiles  1 
don't" 


VII 

Only  another  day  did  the  stranger  remain  in  Michael,  but 
the  brief  time  was  full  of  strange  events.  The  night  closed 
in  before  seven  o'clock.  It  was  then  very  dark  across  the 
mountains,  and  the  sea  lay  black  beyond  the  cliffs,  but  the 
Curraghs  were  dotted  over  with  the  many  fires  which  had 
been  kindled  about  the  infected  houses. 

Within  one  of  these  houses,  the  home  of  Jabez  Gawne,  the 
stranger  stood  beside  the  bed  of  a  sick  woman,  the  tailor's 
wife.  Behind  him  there  were  anxious  faces.  Davy  Fayle, 
always  near  him,  leaned  against  the  door-jamp  by  the 
porch. 

And  while  the  stranger  wrapped  the  sweltering  sufferer  in 
hot  blankets,  other  sufferers  sent  to  him  to  pray  of  him  to 
come  to  them.  First  there  came  an  old  man  to  tell  of  his 
grandchild,  who  had  been  smitten  down  that  day,  and  she 
w  as  the  last  of  his  kin  whom  the  Sweat  had  left  alive.  Then 
a  woman,  to  say  that  her  husband,  who  had  started  again 
with  the  boats  but  yesterday,  had  been  brought  home  to  her 
that  night  with  the  sickness.  He  Ustened  to  all  who  came, 
and  answered  quietly,  "  I  will  go." 

At  length  a  young  man  ran  in  and  said,  "  The  Dempster's 
down.  He's  shouting  for  you,  sir.  He  sent  me  hot-foot  to 
fetch  you." 

343 


THE   DEEMSTER 

The  stranger  listened  as  before,  and  seemed  to  think  rapidly 
for  a  moment,  for  his  under  lip  trembled,  and  "was  drawn 
painfully  inward.  Then  he  answered  as  briefly  as  ever,  and 
with  as  calm  a  voice,  "  I  will  go." 

The  man  ran  back  with  his  answer,  but  presently  returned, 
saying,  with  panting  breath,  "  He's  rambling,  sir ;  raving 
mad,  sir ;  and  shouting  that  he  must  be  coming  after  you  if 
you're  not  for  coming  to  him." 

"  We  will  go  together,"  the  stranger  said,  and  they  went 
out  immediately.  Davy  Fayle  followed  them  at  a  few 
paces. 

vni 

Through  the  darkness  of  that  night  a  woman,  young  and 
beautiful,  in  cloak  and  hood  like  a  nun's,  walked  from  house 
to  house  of  the  Curraghs,  where  the  fires  showed  that  the 
sickness  was  still  raging.  It  was  Mona.  These  three  days 
past  she  had  gone  hither  and  thither,  partly  to  tend  the 
sick  people,  partly  in  hope  of  meeting  the  strange  man 
who  had  come  to  cure  them.  Again  and  again  she  had 
missed  him,  being  sometimes  only  a  few  minutes  before  or 
after  him. 

Still  she  passed  on  from  house  to  house,  looking  for  him  as 
she  went  in  at  every  fresh  door,  yet  half  dreading  the  chance 
that  might  bring  them  face  to  face. 

She  entered  the  house  where  he  had  received  her  father's 
message  almost  on  the  instant  when  he  left  it.  The  three 
men  had  gone  by  her  in  the  darkness. 

Jabez,  the  tailor,  who  sat  whimpering  in  the  ingle,  told 
her  that  the  priest  had  that  moment  gone  off  to  Ballamona, 
where  the  Dempster  that  was — hadn't  she  heard  the  newses.-* 
— was  new  down  with  the  Sweat. 

Her  delicate  face  whitened  at  that,  and  after  a  pause  she 
turned  to  follow.  But  going  back  to  the  hearth,  she  asked  if 
the  stranger  had  been  told  that  the  Bishop  wanted  to  see 
him.  Jabez  told  her  yes,  and  that  he  had  said  he  would  go 
up  to  Bishop's  Court  before  leaving  the  parish. 

Then  another  question  trembled  on  her  tongue,  but  she 
could  not  utter  it.  At  last  she  asked  what  manner  of  man 
the  stranger  was  to  look  upon. 

"  Aw,  big  and  sthraight  and  tall,"  said  Jabez. 
344 


THE   SWEATING  SICKNESS 

And  Billy-the-Gawk,  who  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
ingle,  being  kin  to  Jabez's  sick  wife,  said,  "  Ay,  and  quiet  like, 
and  solemn  extraordinary." 

"  A  wonderful  man,  wonderful,  wonderful,"  said  Jabez,  still 
whimpering.  "  And  wherever  he  comes  the  Sweat  goes  down 
before  him  with  a  flood." 

"As  I  say,"  said  Billy-the-Gawk,  "the  good  man's  face 
plagues  me  mortal.  I  can't  bethink  me  where  I've  seen  the 
like  of  it  afore." 

Mona's  lips  quivered  at  that  word,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
about  to  speak ;  but  she  said  nothing. 

"And  the  strong  he  is!"  said  Jabez:  "I  never  knew 
but  one  man  in  the  island  with  half  the  strength  of  arm 
at  him." 

Mona's  pale  face  twitched  visibly,  and  she  listened  as  with 
every  faculty. 

"  Who  d'ye  mane  ?  "  asked  Billy-the-Gawk. 

At  that  question  there  was  a  moment's  silence  between  the 
men.  Then  each  drew  a  long  breath,  dislodged  a  heavy 
burden  from  his  throat,  glanced  significantly  up  at  Mona,  and 
looked  into  the  other's  face. 

"  Him,*'  said  Jabez,  in  a  faint  under-breath,  speaking  behind 
his  hand. 

"Him?" 

Billy-the-Gawk  straightened  his  crooked  back,  opened  wide 
his  rheumy  eyes,  pursed  up  his  wizened  cheeks,  and  emitted 
a  low,  long  whistle. 

"  Lord  A'mighty  ! " 

For  an  instant  Jabez  looked  steadily  into  the  old  mendi- 
cant's face,  and  then  drew  himself  up  in  his  seat — 

"  Lord  a-massy  ! " 

Mona's  heart  leapt  to  her  mouth.  She  was  almost  beside 
herself  with  suspense,  and  felt  an  impulse  to  scream. 


IX 

Within  a  week  after  old  Thorkell  had  conversed  with  the 
Bishop  about  the  rumour  that  the  wells  had  been  charmed, 
his  terror  of  the  sickness  had  grown  nigh  to  madness.  He 
went  to  church  no  longer,  but  shut  himself  up  in  his  house. 
Night  and  day  his  restless  footstep  could  be  heard  to  pass 
23  345 


THE   DEEMSTER 

from  room  to  room  and  floor  to  floor.  He  ate  little,  and  such 
was  his  dread  of  the  water  from  his  well  that  for  three  days 
together  he  drank  nothing.  At  length,  burning  from  thirst, 
he  went  up  the  Dhoon  Glen  and  drank  at  a  pool,  going  down 
on  hands  and  knees  to  lap  the  water  like  a  dog.  Always  he 
seemed  to  be  mumbling  prayers,  and  when  the  bell  of  the 
church  rang,  no  matter  for  what  occasion,  he  dropped  to 
his  knees  and  prayed  audibly.  He  forbade  the  servants 
of  the  house  to  bring  him  news  of  deaths,  but  waited  and 
watched  and  listened  at  open  doors  for  their  conver- 
sation among  themselves.  At  night  he  went  to  the  front 
windows  to  look  at  the  fires  that  were  kindled  about  the 
infected  houses  on  the  Curraghs.  He  never  failed  to  turn 
from  that  sight  with  bitter  words.  Such  work  was  but 
the  devil's  play :  it  was  making  a  mock  at  God,  who  had 
sent  the  sickness  to  revenge  Himself  on  the  island's  guilty 
people.  Thorkell  told  Jarvis  Kerruish  as  much  time  after 
time.  Jarvis  answered  contemptuously,  and  Thorkell  re- 
torted angrily.  At  length  they  got  to  high  words,  and 
Jarvis  flung  away. 

One  morning  Thorkell  called  for  Hommy-beg.  They 
told  him  that  Hommy  had  been  nursing  his  wife.  The  blind 
woman  was  now  dead,  and  Hommy  was  burying  her.  At 
this  Thorkell's  terror  was  appalling  to  look  upon.  All 
night  long  he  had  been  telling  himself  that  he  despised 
the  belief  in  second  sight,  but  that  he  would  see  if  Kerry 
pretended  to  know  whether  he  himself  was  to  outlive  the 
scourge.  No  matter,  the  woman  was  dead.  So  much  the 
better ! 

Later  the  same  day  Thorkell  remembered  that  somewhere 
on  the  mountains  there  lived  an  old  farmer  who  was  a  seer 
and  bard.  He  would  go  to  see  the  old  charlatan.  Yes, 
he  would  amuse  himself  with  the  superstition  that  aped 
religion.  Thorkell  set  out,  and  found  the  bard's  lonely 
house  far  up  above  the  Sherragh  Vane.  In  a  corner  of  the 
big  fireplace  the  old  man  sat,  with  a  black  shawl  bound 
about  his  head  and  tied  under  his  chin.  He  was  past  eighty 
years  of  age,  and  his  face  was  as  old  a  face  as  Thorkell  had 
ever  looked  upon.  On  his  knee  a  young  child  was  sitting, 
and  two  or  three  small  boys  were  playing  about  his  feet. 
A  brisk  middle-aged  woman  was  stirring  the  peats  and 
settling  the  kettle  on  the  chimney-hook.     She  was  the  old 

346* 


THE   SWEATING   SICKNESS 

man's  wife,  and  the  young  brood  were  the  old  man's 
children. 

Thorkell  began  to  talk  of  carvals,  and  said  he  had  come 
to  hear  some  of  them.  The  old  bard's  eyes  brightened. 
He  had  written  a  carol  about  the  sickness.  From  the 
'^  lath "  he  took  a  parchment  pan,  full  of  papers  that  were 
worn,  thumb-marked,  and  greasy.  From  one  of  these  papers 
he  began  to  read,  and  Thorkell  tried  to  listen.  The  poem 
was  an  account  of  a  dream.  The  dreamer  had  dreamt  that 
he  had  gone  into  a  church.  There  was  a  congregation 
gathered,  and  a  preacher  was  in  the  pulpit.  But  when  the 
preacher  prayed  the  dreamer  heard  nothing  of  God.  At 
length  he  discovered  that  it  was  a  congregation  of  the  dead 
in  the  region  of  the  damned.  They  had  all  died  of  the 
Sweat.  Every  man  of  them  had  been  warned  by  wise 
men  and  women  in  this  world.  The  congregation  sang  a 
joyless  psalm,  and  when  their  service  was  done  they  began 
to  break  up.  Then  the  dreamer  recognised  some  whom  he 
had  known  in  the  flesh.  Among  them  was  one  who  had 
killed  his  own  son,  and  he  was  afflicted  with  a  burning 
thirst.  To  this  unhappy  man  the  dreamer  offered  a  basin 
of  milk-and-water,  but  the  damned  soul  could  not  get  the 
basin  to  his  parched  lips,  struggle  as  he  might  to  lift  it  in 
his  stiff  arms. 

At  first  Thorkell  listened  with  the  restless  mind  of  a  man 
who  had  come  on  better  business,  and  then  with  a  feverish 
interest.  The  sky  had  darkened  since  he  entered  the  house, 
and  while  the  old  bard  chanted  in  his  sing-song  voice,  and 
the  children  made  their  clatter  around  his  feet,  a  storm  of 
heavy  rain  pelted  against  the  window-pane. 

The  ballad  ended  in  the  grim  doggerel  of  a  harrowing 
appeal  to  the  sinner  to  shun  his  evil  courses : — 

**  O  sinner,  see  your  dangerous  state, 
And  think  of  hell  ere  'tis  too  late  ; 
When  worldly  cares  would  drown  each  thought. 
Pray  call  to  mind  that  hell  is  hot. 
Still  to  increase  your  godly  fears 
Let  this  be  sounding  in  your  ears. 
Still  bear  in  mind  that  hell  is  hot, 
Remember,  and  forget  it  not." 

Thus,  with  a  swinging  motion  of  the  body,  the  old  bard 

347 


THE  DEEMSTER 

ot  the  mountain  chanted  his  rude  song  on  the  dangers  of 
damnation.  Thorkell  leapt  up  from  the  settle  and  sputtered 
out  an  expression  of  contempt.  What  madness  was  this  ? 
If  he  had  his  way  he  would  clap  all  superstitious  people  into 
the  Castle. 

The  next  morning,  when  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  Thorkell 
told  Jarvis  Kerruish  that  he  had  three  nights  running  dreamt 
the  same  dream,  and  it  was  a  terrible  one.  Jarvis  laughed 
in  his  face,  and  said  he  was  a  foolish  old  man.  Thorkell 
answered  with  heat,  and  they  parted  on  the  instant,  neither 
touching  food.  Towards  noon  Thorkell  imagined  he  felt 
feverish,  and  asked  for  Jarvis  Kerruish ;  but  Jarvis  was  at 
his  toilet  and  would  not  be  disturbed.  At  five  o'clock  the 
same  day  Thorkell  was  sweating  from  every  pore,  and  crying 
lustily  that  he  had  taken  the  sickness.  Towards  seven  he 
ordered  the  servant — a  young  man  named  Juan  Caine,  who 
had  come  to  fill  Hommy's  place — to  go  in  search  of  the 
Romish  priest.  Father  Dalby. 

When  the  stranger  came,  the  young  man  opened  the  door 
to  him,  and  whispered  that  the  old  master's  wits  were  gone. 
"He's  not  been  wise  these  two  hours,"  the  young  mail 
said,  and  then  led  the  way  to  Thorkell's  bedroom.  He 
missed  the  corridor,  and  the  stranger  pointed  to  the  proper 
door. 

Thorkell  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed.  His  clothes  had 
not  been  taken  off,  but  his  coat — a  blue  coat,  laced — 
and  also  his  long  yellow  vest  were  unbuttoned.  His  wig 
was  perched  on  the  top  of  a  high-backed  chair,  and  over 
his  bald  head  hung  a  torn  piece  of  red  flannel.  His  long 
hairy  hands,  with  the  prominent  blue  veins,  crawled  like 
a  crab  over  the  counterpane.  His  eyes  were  open  very 
wide.  When  he  saw  the  stranger  he  was  for  getting  out 
of  bed. 

"I  am  not  ill,"  he  said;  "it's  folly  to  think  that  I've 
taken  the  sickness.  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you  something 
that  you  should  know." 

Then  he  called  to  the  young  man  to  bring  him  water. 
"  Juan,  water  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  Juan,  I  say,  more  water." 

He  turned  to  the  stranger.  "  It's  true  I'm  always  athirst, 
but  is  that  any  proof  that  I  have  taken  the  sickness  ?  Juan, 
be  quick — water  !  " 

The  young  man  brought  a  pewter  pot  of  cold  water,  and 
348 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS 

Thorkell  clutched  at  it,  but  as  he  was  stretching  his  neck 
to  drink,  his  hot  Hps  working  visibly,  and  his  white  tongue 
protruding,  he  drew  suddenly  back.  "  Is  it  from  the  well  ?  " 
he  asked. 

The  stranger  took  the  pewter  out  of  his  hands,  unlocking 
his  stiff  fingers  Mdth  his  own  great  bony  ones.  "  Make  the 
water  hot,"  he  said  to  the  servant. 

Thorkell  fell  back  to  his  pillow,  and  the  rag  of  red  blanket 
dropped  from  his  bald  crown.  Then  he  lifted  himself  on  one 
elbow  and  began  again  to  talk  of  the  sickness.  "  You  have 
made  a  mistake,'*  he  said.  "  It  is  not  to  be  cured.  It  is 
God's  revenge  on  the  people  of  this  sinful  island.  Shall  I 
tell  you  for  what  offence  }  For  superstition.  Superstition  is 
the  ape  of  religion.  It  is  the  reproach  of  God.  Juan  ! 
Juan,  I  say,  help  me  off  with  this  coat.  And  these  bed- 
clothes also.  Why  are  there  so  many  }  It's  true,  sir — 
Father,  is  it  } — it's  true.  Father,  I'm  hot,  but  what  of  that  } 
Water  !     Juan,  more  water — Glen  water,  Juan  !  " 

The  stranger  pushed  Thorkell  gently  back,  and  covered 
him  closely  from  the  air. 

''As  I  say,  it  is  superstition,  sir,"  said  Thorkell  again. 
"  I  would  have  it  put  down  by  law.  It  is  the  curse  of  this 
island.  What  are  those  twenty-four  Keys  doing  that  they 
don't  stamp  it  out }  And  the  clergy — what  are  they  wrang- 
ling about  now,  that  they  don't  see  to  it  ?  I'll  tell  you  how 
it  is,  sir.  It  is  this  way.  A  man  does  something,  and  some 
old  woman  sneezes.  Straightway  he  thinks  himself  accursed, 
and  that  what  is  predicted  must  certainly  come  about.  And 
it  does  come  about.  Why  .'*  Because  the  man  himself,  with 
his  blundering,  doddering  fears,  brings  it  about.  He  brings 
it  about  himself — that's  how  it  is  !  And  then  every  old 
woman  in  the  island  sneezes  again." 

Saying  this,  Thorkell  began  to  laugh,  loudly,  frantically, 
atrociously.  Jarvis  Kerruish  had  entered  while  he  was 
running  on  with  his  tirade.  The  stranger  did  not  lift  his 
eyes  to  Jarvis,  but  Jarvis  looked  at  him  attentively. 

When  Thorkell  had  finished  his  hideous  laugh  he  turned 
to  Jarvis  and  asked  if  superstition  was  not  the  plague  of  the 
island,  and  if  it  ought  not  to  be  put  down  by  law.  Jarvis 
curled  his  lips  for  answer,  but  this  form  of  contempt  was 
lost  on  old  Thorkell' s  dim  eyes. 

"  Have  we  not  often  agreed  that  it  is  so  }  "  said  Thoikell. 
S49 


THE  DEEMSTER 

"  And  that  you,"  said  Jarvis,  speaking  slowly  and  bitterly, 
''are  the  most  superstitious  man  alive." 

"  What  ?  what  ?  "  Thorkell  cried. 

The  stranger  lifted  his  face,  and  looked  steadily  into 
Jarvis's  eyes.  "  You,"  he  said  calmly,  "  have  some  reason 
to  say  so." 

Jarvis  reddened,  turned  about,  stepped  to  the  door,  glanced 
back  at  the  stranger,  and  went  out  of  the  room, 

Thorkell  was  now  moaning  on  the  pillow.  "  I  am  all 
alone,"  he  said,  and  he  fell  to  a  bout  of  weeping. 

The  stranger  waited  until  the  hysterical  fit  was  over,  and 
then  said,  "  Where  is  your  daughter  }  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Thorkell,  dropping  his  red  eyes. 

"Send  for  her." 

"  I  will.  Juan,  go  to  Bishop's  Court.  Juan,  I  say,  run  fast 
and  fetch  Mistress  Mona.     Tell  her  that  her  father  is  ill." 

As  Thorkell  gave  this  order  Jarvis  Kerruish  returned  to 
the  room. 

"  No  ! "  said  Jarvis,  lifting  his  hand  against  the  young  man. 

".  No  }  "  cried  Thorkell. 

"  If  this  is  my  house,  I  will  be  master  in  it,"  said  Jarvis. 

"  Master !  your  house  !  yours  !  "  Thorkell  cried ;  and  then 
he  fell  to  a  fiercer  bout  of  hysterical  curses.  "  Bastard,  I 
gave  you  all !  But  for  me  you  would  be  on  the  roads — ay, 
the  dunghill ! " 

''This  violence  will  avail  you  nothing,"  said  Jarvis,  with 
hard  constraint.  ''Mistress  Mona  shall  not  enter  this 
house." 

Jarvis  placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  door.  The 
stranger  stepped  up  to  him,  laid  one  powerful  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  drew  him  aside.  "Go  for  Mistress  Mona,"  he  said 
to  the  young  man.  "  Knock  at  the  door  on  your  return.  I 
will  open  it." 

The  young  man  obeyed  the  stranger.  Jarvis  stood  a 
moment  looking  blankly  into  the  stranger's  face.  Then  he 
went  out  of  the  room  again. 

Thorkell  was  whimpering  on  the  pillow.  "  It  is  true,"  he 
said,  with  labouring  breath,  "  though  I  hate  superstition  and 
loathe  it,  I  was  once  its  victim — once  only.  My  son  Ewan 
was  killed  by  my  brother's  son  Dan.  They  loved  each  other 
like  David  and  Jonathan,  but  I  told  Ewan  a  lie,  and  they 
fought,  and  Ewan  was  brought  home  dead.     Yes,  I  told  a  lie, 

350 


THE  SWEATING   SICKNESS 

but  I  believed  it  then.  I  made  myself  believe  it.  I  listened 
to  some  old  wife's  balderdash,  and  thought  it  true.  And 
Dan  was  cut  off — that  is  to  say,  banished,  excommunicated  ; 
worse,  worse.  But  he's  dead  now.  He  was  found  dead  in 
the  snow."  Again  Thorkell  tried  to  laugh,  a  poor  despairing 
laugh  that  was  half  a  cry.  "  Dead  !  They  threatened  me  that 
he  would  push  me  from  my  place.  And  he  is  dead  before  me  ! 
So  much  for  divination  !     But  tell  me — you  are  a  priest — tell 

me   if  that   sin  will  drag  me  down  to — to But  then, 

remember,  I  believed  it  was  true — yes,  I " 

The  stranger's  face  twitched,  and  his  breathing  became 
quick. 

"  And  it  was  you  who  led  the  way  to  all  that  followed } " 
he  said  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  It  was  ;  it  was " 

The  stranger  had  suddenly  reached  over  the  bed  and 
taken  Thorkell  by  the  shoulders.  At  the  next  instant  he 
had  relinquished  his  hard  grasp,  and  was  standing  upright 
as  before,  and  with  as  calm  a  face.  And  Thorkell  went 
jabbering  on — 

"  These  three  nights  I  have  dreamt  a  feai-ful  dream.  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  it  was  ?  Shall  1?  I  thought  Dan,  my 
brother's  son,  arose  out  of  his  grave,  and  came  to  my  bed- 
side, and  peered  into  my  face.  Then  I  thought  I  shrieked 
and  died ;  and  the  first  thing  I  saw  in  the  other  world  was 
my  own  son  Ewan,  and  he  peered  into  my  face  also,  and 
told  me  that  I  was  damned  eternally.  But,  tell  me,  don't 
you  think  it  was  only  a  dream  ?  Father !  Father  !  I  say 
tell  me " 

Thorkell  was  clambering  up  by  hold  of  the  stranger's  coat. 

The  stranger  pushed  him  gently  back. 

"Lie  still!  lie  still — you  too  have  suffered  much,"  he 
said.     "  Lie  quiet— God  is  merciful." 

Just  then  Jarvis  Kerruish  entered  in  wild  excitement.  "  Now 
I  know  who  this  man  is,"  he  said  pointing  to  the  stranger. 

"  Father  Dal  by,"  said  Thorkell. 

"  Pshaw  ! — it  is  Dan  Mylrea." 

Thorkell  lifted  himself  stiffly  on  his  elbow,  and  rigidly 
drew  his  face  closely  up  to  the  stranger's  face,  and  peered 
into  the  stranger's  eyes.  Then  he  took  a  convulsive  hold 
of  the  stranger's  coat,  shrieked,  and  fell  back  on  to  the 
pillow. 

351 


THE  DEEMSTER 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door 
below.  The  stranger  left  the  room.  In  the  hall  a  candle 
was  burning.  He  put  it  out.  Then  he  opened  the  door.  A 
woman  entered.  She  was  alone.  She  passed  him  in  the  dark- 
ness without  speaking.  He  went  out  of  the  house  and  pulled 
the  door  after  him. 


An  hour  later  than  this  terrible  interview,  wherein  his  iden- 
tity (never  hidden  by  any  sorry  masquerade)  was  suddenly  re- 
vealed. Daniel  Mylrea,  followed  closely  at  his  heels  by  Davy 
Fayle,  walked  amid  the  fires  of  the  valley  to  Bishop's  Court. 
He  approached  the  old  house  by  the  sea  front,  and  went  into 
its  grounds  by  a  gate  that  opened  on  a  footpath  to  the  library 
through  a  clump  of  elms.  Sluggish  as  was  Davy's  intellect, 
he  reflected  that  this  was  a  path  that  no  stranger  could  know. 

The  sky  of  the  night  had  lightened,  and  here  and  there  a 
star  gleamed  through  the  thinning  branches  overhead.  In  a 
faint  breeze  the  withering  leaves  of  the  dying  summer  rustled 
slightly.  On  the  meadow  before  the  house  a  silvery  haze  of 
night-dew  lay  in  its  silence.  Sometimes  the  croak  of  a  frog 
came  from  the  glen ;  and  from  the  sea  beyond  (though  seem- 
ingly from  the  mountains  opposite)  there  rose  into  the  air  the 
rumble  of  the  waves  on  the  shore. 

Daniel  Mylrea  passed  on  with  a  slow,  strong  step,  but  a 
secret  pain  oppressed  him.  He  was  walking  on  ground  that 
was  dear  with  a  thousand  memories  of  happy  childhood.  He 
was  going  back  for  some  brief  moments  that  must  be  painful 
and  joyful,  awful  and  delicious,  to  the  house  which  he  had 
looked  to  see  no  more.  Already  he  was  very  near  to  those 
who  were  very  dear  to  him,  and  to  whom  he,  too — ^yes,  it 
must  be  so — to  whom  he,  too,  in  spite  of  all,  must  still  be 
dear.  "Father,  father,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "And 
Mona,  my  Mona,  my  love,  my  love."  Only  the  idle  chatter 
of  the  sapless  leaves  answered  to  the  yearning  cry  of  his  broken 
spirit. 

He  had  passed  out  of  the  shade  of  the  elms  into  the  open 
green  of  the  meadow  with  the  stars  above  it,  when  another 
voice  came  to  him.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  child  singing.  Clear 
and  sweet,  and  with  a  burden  of  tenderness  such  as  a  child's 
voice  rarely  carries,  it  floated  through  the  quiet  air. 

352 


THE   SWEATING  SICKNESS 

Daniel  Mylrea  passed  on  until  he  came  by  the  library 
window,  which  was  alight  with  a  rosy  glow.  There  he  stood 
for  a  moment  and  looked  into  the  room.  His  father,  the 
Bishop,  was  seated  in  the  oak  chair  that  was  clamped  with 
iron  clamps.  Older  he  seemed  to  be,  and  with  the  lines  a 
thought  deeper  on  his  massive  brow.  On  a  stool  at  his  feet, 
with  one  elbow  resting  on  the  apron  in  front  of  him,  a  little 
maiden  sat,  and  she  was  singing.  A  fire  burned  red  on  the 
hearth  before  them.  Presently  the  Bishop  rose  from  his  chair 
and  went  out  of  the  room,  walking  feebly,  and  with  drooping 
head. 

Then  Daniel  Mylrea  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  house 
and  knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  servant  whose  face 
was  strange  to  him.  Everything  that  he  saw  was  strange, 
and  yet  everything  was  familiar.  The  hall  was  the  same 
but  smaller,  and  when  it  echoed  to  his  foot  a  thrill  passed 
through  him. 

He  asked  for  the  Bishop,  and  was  led  like  a  stranger 
through  his  father  s  house  to  the  door  of  the  library.  The 
little  maiden  was  now  alone  in  the  room.  She  rose  from  her 
stool  as  he  entered,  and,  without  the  least  reserve,  stepped 
up  to  him  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  her  tender  little 
palm  in  his  great  fingers,  and  held  it  for  a  moment  while 
he  looked  into  her  face.  It  was  a  beautiful  child-face, 
soft  and  fair  and  oval,  with  a  faint  tinge  of  olive  in  the 
pale  cheeks,  and  with  yellow  hair — almost  white  in  the  glow 
of  the  red  fire — falling  in  thin  tresses  over  a  full,  smooth 
forehead. 

He  sat  and  drew  her  closer  to  him,  still  looking  steadily 
into  her  face.  Then  in  a  tremulous  voice  he  asked  her  what 
her  name  was,  and  the  little  maiden,  who  had  shown  no  fear 
at  all,  nor  any  bashfulness,  answered  that  her  name  was 
Aileen. 

"  But  they  call  me  Ailee,"  she  added  promptly ;  "  every- 
bodv  calls  me  Ailee." 

"Everybody .?     Who  }  " 

"  Oh,  everybody,"  she  answered,  with  a  true  child's 
emphasis. 

"  Your  mother  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Your — your — perhaps — your " 

She  shook  her  head  more  vigorously. 
S53 


THE  DEEMSTER 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  but  I've  got  none," 
she  said. 

"  Got  none  ?  "  he  repeated. 

The  Httle  maiden's  face  took  suddenly  a  wondrous  solem- 
nity, and  she  said,  "  My  father  died  a  long,  long,  long  time 
ago — when  I  was  only  a  little  baby." 

His  lips  quivered  and  his  eyes  fell  from  her  face. 

"  Such  a  long,  long  while  ago — you  wouldn't  think.  And 
auntie  says  I  can't  even  remember  him." 

"Auntie.?*" 

"  But  shall  I  tell  you  what  Kerry  said  it  was  that  made  him 
die  } — shall  I  ? — only  I  must  whisper — and  you  won't  tell 
auntie,  will  you.^ — because  auntie  doesn't  know — shall  I 
tell  you  ?  " 

His  quivering  lips  whitened,  and  with  trembling  hands  he 
drew  aside  the  little  maiden's  head  that  her  innocent  eyes 
might  not  gaze  into  his  face. 

''  How  old  are  you,  Ailee  ven } "  he  asked  in  a  brave 
voice. 

"  Oh,  I'm  seven — and  auntie,  she's  seven  too ;  auntie  and 
I  are  twins." 

"And  you  can  sing,  can  you  not .''     Will  you  sing  for  me?" 

"What  shall  I  sing .>" 

"Anything,  sweetheart — what  you  sang  a  little  while 
since." 

"  For  grandpa  ?  " 

"  Grandpa  ?  " 

"  Kerry  says  no,  its  uncle,  not  grandpa.  But  that's  wrong," 
with  a  look  of  outraged  honour ;  "  and  besides,  how  should 
Kerry  know '?  It's  not  her  grandpa,  is  it  ?  Do  you  know 
Kerry  ?  "  Then  the  little  face  saddened  all  at  once.  "  Oh,  I 
forgot — poor  Kerry." 

"  Poor  Kerry  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  go  and  see  her.  You  go  up  the  road,  and  then 
on  and  on  and  on  until  you  come  to  some  children,  and  then 
on  and  on  and  on  until  you  get  to  a  little  boy — and  then 
you're  there." 

"  Won't  you  sing,  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  I'll  sing  grandpa's  song." 

"Grandpa's.''" 

"  Yes,  the  one  he  likes." 

Then  the  little  maiden's  dimpled  face  smoothened  out, 
354> 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS 

and  her  simple  eyes  turned  gravely  upwards  as  she  began  to 
sing  :— 

"O  Myle  Charaine,  where  got  you  your  gold  ? 
Lone,  lone,  you  have  left  nae  here. 
O  not  in  the  Curragh,  deep  under  the  mould, 
Lone,  lone,  and  void  of  cheer." 

It  was  the  favourite  song  of  his  own  boyish  days;  and 
while  the  little  maiden  sang  it  seemed  to  the  crime-stained 
man  who  gazed  through  a  dim  haze  into  her  cherub  face 
that  the  voice  of  her  dead  father  had  gone  into  her  voice. 
He  listened  while  he  could,  and  when  the  tears  welled  up  to 
his  eyes,  with  his  homy  hands  he  drew  her  fair  head  down 
to  his  heaving  breast,  and  sobbed  beneath  his  breath,  "  Ailee 
ven,  Ailee  ven." 

The  little  maiden  stopped  in  her  song  to  look  up  in 
bewilderment  at  the  bony,  wet  face  that  was  stooping  over 
her. 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  the 
Bishop  entered  noiselessly.  A  moment  he  stood  on  the 
threshold,  with  a  look  of  perplexity.  Then  he  made  a  few 
halting  steps,  and  said — 

"  My  eyes  are  not  what  they  were,  sir,  and  I  see  there  is 
no  light  but  the  firelight ;  but  I  presume  you  are  the  good 
Father  Dalby  ?  " 

Daniel  Mylrea  had  risen  to  his  feet. 

"  I  come  from  him,"  he  answered. 

"  Is  he  not  coming  himself.''  " 

"  He  cannot  come.    He  charged  me  with  a  message  to  you.** 

''You  are  very  welcome.  My  niece  will  be  home  pre- 
sently.    Be  seated,  sir." 

Daniel  Mylrea  did  not  sit,  but  continued  to  stand  before 
his  father,  with  head  held  down.  After  a  moment  he  spoke 
again. 

"Father  Dalby,**  he  said,  "is  dead.*' 

The  Bishop  sank  to  his  chair.     "  When  }  when  }  " 

"  He  died  the  better  part  of  a  month  ago.'* 

The  Bishop  rose  to  his  feet. 

"He  was  in  this  island  but  yesterday." 

"  He  bade  me  tell  you  that  he  had  fulfilled  his  pledge  to 
you  and  come  to  the  island,  but  died  by  the  visitation  of  God 
the  same  night  whereon  he  landed  here.*' 

S5d 


THE  DEEMSTER 

The  Bishop  put  one  hand  to  his  forehead. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  my  hearing  is  also  failing  me,  for,  as  you 
see,  I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  besides  I  have  had  trouble  in 
my  time.     Perhaps,  sir,  I  did  not  hear  you  aright." 

Then  Daniel  Mylrea  told  in  few  words  the  story  of  the 
priest's  accident  and  death,  and  how  the  man  at  whose 
house  he  died  had  made  bold  to  take  the  good  priest's 
mission  upon  himself. 

The  Bishop  listened  with  visible  pain,  and  for  a  while  said 
nothing.  Then,  speaking  in  a  faltering  voice,  with  breath 
that  came  quickly,  he  asked  who  the  other  man  had  been. 
''For  the  good  man  has  been  a  blessing  to  us,"  he  added 
nervously. 

To  this  question  there  was  no  reply,  and  he  asked  again — 

"Who.?" 

"Myself" 

The  Bishop  lifted  with  trembling  fingers  his  horn-bridged 
spectacles  to  his  eyes. 

"Your  voice  is  strangely  familiar,"  he  said.  "What  is 
your  name  }  " 

Again  there  was  no  answer. 

"Give  me  your  name,  sir — that  I  may  pray  of  God  to 
bless  you." 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Let  me  remember  it  in  my  prayers." 

Then  in  a  breaking  voice  Daniel  Mylrea  replied — 

"In  your  prayers  my  poor  name  has  never  been  for- 
gotten." 

At  that  the  Bishop  tottered  a  pace  backward. 

"  Light,"  he  said  faintly.     "  More  hght." 

He  touched  a  bell  on  the  table,  and  sank  quietly  into  his 
chair.  Daniel  Mylrea  fell  to  his  knees  at  the  Bishop's 
feet. 

"  Father,"  he  said  in  a  fervent  whisper,  and  put  his  Hps 
to  the  Bishop's  hand. 

The  dooi  was  opened,  and  a  servant  entered  witli  candles. 
At  the  same  moment  Daniel  Mylrea  stepped  quickly  out  of 
the  room. 

Then  the  little  maiden  leaped  from  the  floor  to  the 
Bishop's  side. 

"  Grandpa,  grandpa  '  Oh,  what  has  happened  to  grandpa  ?  " 
she  cried. 

S5Q 


"OUR  FATHER,  WHICH  ART  IN  HEAVEN" 

The  Bishop's  head  had  dropped  into  his  breast  and  he  had 
fainted.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  in  consciousness  Mona 
was  bathing  his  forehead  and  damping  his  Hps. 

"  My  child/'  he  said  nervously,  "  one  has  come  back  to  us 
from  the  dead." 

And  Mona  answered  him  with  the  thought  that  was  now 
uppermost  in  her  mind. 

*'Dear  uncle,"  she  said,  "my  poor  father  died  half  an 
hour  ago." 


CHAPTER  XLV 

"  OUR    FATHER,    WHICH    ART    IN    HEAVEN  " 

Not  many  days  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  foregoing 
chapter,  the  people  of  Man  awoke  to  the  joyful  certainty 
that  the  sweating  sickness  had  disappeared.  The  solid  wave 
of  heat  had  gone ;  the  ground  had  become  dry  and  the  soil 
light,  and  no  foetid  vapours  floated  over  the  Curraghs  at 
midday.  Also  the  air  had  grown  keener,  the  nights  had 
sharpened,  and  in  the  morning  the  fronds  of  hoar-frost  hung 
on  the  withering  leaves  of  the  trammon. 

Then  the  poor  folk  began  to  arrange  their  thoughts  con- 
cerning the  strange  things  that  had  happened  ;  to  count  up 
their  losses  by  death  ;  to  talk  of  children  that  were  fatherless ; 
and  of  old  men  left  alone  in  the  world,  like  naked  trunks, 
without  bough  or  branch,  flung  on  the  bare  earth  by  yester- 
day's storm. 

And  in  that  first  roll-call  after  the  battle  of  life  and  death 
the  people  suddenly  became  aware  that,  with  the  sweating 
sickness,  the  man  who  had  brought  the  cure  for  it  had  also 
disappeared.  He  was  not  on  the  Curraghs,  he  was  no  longer 
in  Michael,  and  farther  east  he  had  not  travelled.  None 
could  tell  what  had  become  of  him.  When  seen  last  he  was 
walking  south  through  German  towards  Patrick.  He  was 
then  alone,  save  for  the  half-daft  lad,  Davy  Fayle,  who 
slouched  at  his  heels  like  a  dog.  As  he  passed  up  Creg 
Willey's  Hill  the  people  of  St.  John's  followed  him  in  ones 
and  twos  and  threes  to  offer  him  their  simple  thanks.     But 

357 


THE   DEEMSTER 

he  pushed  along  as  one  who  hardly  heard  them.  When  he 
came  by  the  Tynwald  he  paused  and  turned  partly  towards 
Greeba,  as  though  half  minded  to  alter  his  course.  But, 
hesitating  no  longer,  he  followed  the  straight  path  towards 
the  village  at  the  foot  of  Slieu  Whallin.  As  he  crossed  the 
green  the  people  of  St.  John's,  who  followed  him  up  the 
hill-road,  had  grown  to  a  great  number,  being  joined  there 
by  the  people  of  Tynwald.  And  when  he  passed  under  the 
ancient  mount,  walking  with  long,  rapid  steps,  his  chin  on 
his  breast  and  his  eyes  kept  steadfastly  down,  the  grey- 
headed men  uncovered  their  heads,  the  young  women  thrust 
their  young  children  under  his  hands  for  his  blessing,  and  all 
by  one  impulse  shouted  in  one  voice,  "  God  bless  the  priest !  " 
"  Heaven  save  the  priest !  " 

There  were  spectators  of  that  scene  who  were  wont  to  say, 
when  the  sequel  had  freshened  their  memories,  that  amid 
this  wild  tumult  of  the  gratitude  of  the  island's  poor  people, 
he  who  was  the  subject  of  it  made  one  quick  glance  of  pain 
upwards  to  the  mount,  now  standing  empty  above  the  green, 
and  then,  parting  the  crowds  that  encircled  him,  pushed 
through  them  without  word,  or  glance,  or  sign.  Seeing  at 
last  that  he  shrank  from  their  thanks,  the  people  followed 
him  no  farther,  but  remained  on  the  green,  watching  him  as 
he  passed  on  towards  Slieu  Whallin,  and  then  up  by  the 
mountain  track.  When  he  had  reached  the  top  of  the 
path,  where  it  begins  its  descent  to  the  valley  beyond,  he 
paused  again  and  turned  about,  glancing  back.  The  people 
below  saw  his  full  figure  clearly  outlined  against  the  sky, 
and  once  more  they  sent  up  their  shout  by  one  great  im- 
pulse in  one  great  voice  that  drowned  the  distant  rumble 
of  the  sea  t  "  God  bless  the  priest !  "  "  Heaven  save  the 
priest !  "  And  he  heard  it,  for  instantly  he  faced  about  and 
disappeared. 

When  he  was  gone  it  seemed  as  if  a  spell  had  broken. 
The  people  looked  into  each  other's  faces  in  bewilderment, 
as  if  vaguely  conscious  that  somewhere  and  sometime,  under 
conditions  the  same  yet  different,  all  that  they  had  then  seen 
their  eyes  had  seen  before.  And  bit  by  bit  the  memory 
came  back  to  them,  linked  with  a  name  that  might  not  be 
spoken.  Then  many  things  that  had  seemed  strange  became 
plain. 

858 


"OUR   FATHER,   WHICH   ART   IN   HEAVEN" 

In  a  few  days  the  whisper  passed  over  Man,  from  north  to 
south,  from  east  to  west,  from  the  sod  cabins  on  the  Curragh 
to  the  Castle  at  Castletown,  that  he  who  had  cured  the  people 
of  the  sickness,  he  who  had  been  mistaken  for  the  priest 
out  of  Ireland,  was  none  other  than  the  unblessed  man  long 
thought  to  be  dead ;  and  that  he  had  lived  to  be  the  saviour 
of  his  people. 

The  great  news  was  brought  to  Bishop's  Court,  and  it  was 
found  to  be  there  already.  Rumour  said  that  from  Castle- 
town an  inquiry  had  come  asking  if  the  news  were  true,  but 
none  could  tell  what  answer  Bishop's  Court  had  made.  The 
Bishop  had  shut  himself  up  from  all  visits,  even  those  of  his 
clergy.  With  Mona  and  the  child,  Ewan's  little  daughter,  he 
had  passed  the  days  since  Thorkell's  death,  and  not  until 
the  day  of  Thorkell's  funeral  did  he  break  in  upon  his 
solitude.  Then  he  went  down  to  the  little  churchyard  that 
stands  over  by  the  sea. 

They  buried  the  ex-Deemster  near  to  his  son  Ewan, 
and  with  scarcely  a  foot's  space  between  them.  Except 
Jarvis  Kerruish,  the  Bishop  was  Thorkell's  sole  mourner, 
and  hardly  had  the  service  ended,  or  the  second  shovel 
of  earth  fallen  from  old  Will-as-Thorn's  spade,  when  Jarvis 
whipped  about  and  walked  away.  Then  the  Bishop  stood 
alone  by  his  brother's  unhonoured  grave,  trying  to  forget 
his  malice  and  uncharity,  and  his  senseless  superstitions  that 
had  led  to  many  disasters,  thinking  only  with  the  pity 
that  is  nigh  to  love  of  the  great  ruin  whereunto  his 
poor  beliefs  had  tottered  down.  And  when  the  Bishop 
had  returned  home  the  roll-call  of  near  kindred  showed 
him  pitiful  gaps.  "  The  island  grows  very  lonesome,  Mona," 
he  said. 

That  night  Davy  Fayle  came  to  Bishop's  Court  with  a  book 
in  his  hand.  He  told  Mona  how  he  had  found  the  Ben-my- 
Chree  a  complete  wreck  on  the  shingle  of  the  Dhoon  Creek 
in  the  Calf  Sound,  and  the  book  in  its  locker.  Not  a  syllable 
could  Davy  read,  but  he  knew  that  the  book  was  the  fishing- 
log  of  the  lugger,  and  that  since  he  saw  it  last  it  had  been 
filled  with  writings. 

Mona  took  the  book  into  the  library,  and  with  the  Bishop 
she  examined  it.  It  was  a  small  quarto,  bound  in  sheepskin, 
with  comers  and  back  of  untanned  leather.  Longways  on 
the    back   the   words    "  Ben-my-Chree    Fishing    I^og"    were 

3.59 


THE  DEEMSTER 

lettered,  as  with  a  soft  quill  in  a  bold  hand.  On  the  front 
page  there  was  this  inscription : — 

Ben-my-Chree. 

Owner,  Daniel  Mylrea,  Bishop's  Court, 

Isle  of  Man. 

Master,  Illiam  Quilleash. 

Over  page  was  the  word  "  Accounts/'  and  then  followed  the 
various  items  of  the  earnings  and  expenditure  of  the  boat. 
The  handwriting  was  strong  and  free,  but  the  bookkeeping 
was  not  lucid. 

Eight  pages  of  faintly-tinted  paper,  much  frayed,  and  with 
lines  ruled  by  hand  one  way  of  the  sheet  only,  were  filled 

with  the  accounts  of  the  herring  season  of .     At  the 

bottom  there  was  an  attempt  at  picking  out  the  items  of 
profit  and  loss,  and  at  reckoning  the  shares  of  owner,  master, 
and  man.  The  balance  stood  but  too  sadly  on  the  wrong 
side.  There  was  a  deficit  of  forty  pounds  four  shillings  and 
sixpence. 

The  Bishop  glanced  at  the  entries,  and  passed  them  over 
with  a  sigh.  But  turning  the  leaves,  he  came  upon  other 
matter  of  more  pathetic  interest.  This  was  a  long  personal 
narrative  from  the  owner's  pen,  covering  some  two  hundred 
of  the  pages.  The  Bishop  looked  it  through,  hurriedly, 
nervously,  and  with  eager  eyes.  Then  he  gave  up  the  book 
to  Mona. 

"  Read  it  aloud,  child,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  unlike  his  own, 
and  with  a  brave  show  of  composure  he  settled  himself  to 
listen. 

For  two  hours  thereafter  Mona  read  from  the  narrative 
that  was  written  in  the  book.  What  that  narrative  was  does 
not  need  to  be  said. 

Often  the  voice  of  the  reader  failed  her,  sometimes  it  could 
not  support  itself.  And  in  the  lapses  of  her  voice  the  silence 
was  broken  by  her  low  sobs. 

The  Bishop  listened  long  with  a  great  outer  calmness,  for 
the  affections  of  the  father  were  struggling  with  a  sense  of 
the  duty  of  the  servant  of  God.  At  some  points  of  the 
narrative  these  seemed  so  to  conflict  as  to  tear  his  old  heart 
woefully.  But  he  bore  up  very  bravely,  and  tried  to  think 
that  in  what  he  had  done  seven  years  before  he  had  done 

360 


"OUR  FATHER,  WHICH   ART   IN   HEAVEN" 

well.     At  an  early  stage  of  Mona's  reading  lie  stopped  her 
to  say — 

"  Men  have  been  cast  on  desert  islands  beforetime,  and  too 
often  they  have  been  adrift  on  unknown  seas." 

Again  he  stopped  her  to  add,  with  a  slow  shake  of  the 
head  — 

"  Men  have  been  outlawed,  and  dragged  out  weary  years 
ill  exile — men  have  been  oftentimes  under  the  ban  and  chain 
of  the  law." 

And  once  again  he  interrupted  and  said,  in  a  trembling 
undertone,  "It  is  true — it  has  been  what  I  looked  for — it 
has  been  a  death  in  life." 

But  as  Mona  went  on  to  read  of  how  the  outcast  man,  kept 
back  from  speech  with  every  living  soul,  struggled  to  preserve 
the  spiritual  part  of  him,  the  Bishop  interrupted  once  more, 
and  said  in  a  faltering  voice — 

"This  existence  has  been  quite  alone  in  its  desolation." 

As  Mona  went  on  again  to  read  of  how  the  unblessed  crea- 
ture said  his  prayer  in  his  solitude,  not  hoping  that  God  would 
hear,  but  thinking  himself  a  man  outside  God's  grace,  though 
God's  hand  was  upon  him — thinking  himself  a  man  doomed 
to  everlasting  death,  though  the  blessing  of  Heaven  had 
already  fallen  over  him  like  morning  dew — then  all  that  re- 
mained of  spiritual  pride  in  the  heart  of  the  Bishop  was  borne 
down  by  the  love  of  the  father,  and  his  old  head  fell  into  his 
breast,  and  the  hot  tears  rained  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks. 

Later  the  same  night  Mona  sent  for  Davy  Fayle.  The 
lad  was  easily  found ;  he  had  been  waiting  in  the  darkness 
outside  the  house,  struggling  hard  with  a  desire  to  go  in 
and  tell  Mistress  Mona  where  Daniel  Mylrea  was  to  be 
found. 

"  Davy,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  where  he  is  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Davy. 

"  And  you  could  lead  me  to  him  }  '* 

"I  could." 

"  Then  come  here  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  we  will 
go  together." 

Next  day  when  Mona,  attired  for  her  journey,  went  down 
for  a  hasty  breakfast,  she  found  the  Bishop  fumbling  a  letter 
in  his  trembling  fingers. 

"  Read  this,  child,"  he  said  in  a  thick  voice,  and  he  handed 
the  letter  to  her. 

24  361 


THE  DEEMSTER 

She  turned  it  over  nervously.  The  superscription  ran, 
"  These  to  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Man,  at  his  Palace  of  Bishop's 
Court/'  and  the  seal  on  the  other  face  was  that  of  the  insular 
Government. 

While  the  Bishop  made  pretence  of  wiping  with  his  hand- 
kerchief the  horn-bridged  spectacles  on  his  nose,  Mona  opened 
and  read  the  letter. 

It  was  from  the  Governor  at  Castletown,  and  said  that  the 
Lord  of  Man  and  the  Isles,  in  recognition  of  the  great  ser- 
vices done  by  Daniel  Mylrea  to  the  people  of  the  island 
during  their  recent  affliction,  would  be  anxious  to  appoint 
him  Deemster  of  Man,  in  succession  to  his  late  uncle,  Thor- 
kell  Mylrea,(being  satisfied  that  he  was  otherwise  qualified 
for  the  post),  if  the  Steward  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Courts  were 
willing  to  remove  the  censure  of  the  Church  under  which  he 
now  laboured. 

When  she  had  finished  reading  Mona  cast  one  glance  of 
nervous  supplication  upwards  to  the  Bishop's  face,  and  then 
with  a  quick  cry  of  joy,  which  was  partly  pain,  she  flung  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

The  old  Bishop  was  quite  broken  down. 

"Man's  judgments  on  man,"  he  said,  "are  but  as  the 
anger  of  little  children — here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow,  and 
the  Father's  face  is  over  all." 


What  need  to  tell  of  one  of  the  incidents  of  Mona's 
journey,  or  of  the  brave  hopes  that  buoyed  her  up  on  the 
long  and  toilsome  way  ?  Many  a  time  during  these  seven 
years  past  she  had  remembered  that  it  was  she  who  had  per- 
suaded Dan  to  offer  his  life  as  an  atonement  for  his  sin. 
And  often  the  thought  came  back  to  her  with  the  swiftness 
of  remorse  that  it  was  she  who,  in  her  blindness,  had  sent 
him  to  a  doom  that  was  worse  than  death.  But  Heaven's 
ways  had  not  been  her  ways,  and  all  was  well.  The  atone- 
ment had  been  made,  and  the  sin  had  been  wiped  out  of  the 
book  of  life.  Dan,  her  love,  her  beloved,  had  worked  out 
his  redemption.  He  had  proved  himself  the  great  man  she 
had  always  known  he  must  be.  He  was  to  come  back  loaded 
with  honour  and  gratitude,  and  surrounded  by  multitudes  of 
tnends. 

362 


"OUR   FATHER,   WHICH   ART  IN   HEAVEN" 

More  than  once,  when  the  journey  was  heaviest,  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  touched  the  paper  that  nestled 
so  warmly  there.  Then  m  her  mind's  eye  she  saw  Dan 
in  the  seat  of  the  Deemster,  the  righteous  judge  of  his 
own  people.  Oh,  yes,  he  would  be  the  Deemster,  but  he 
would  be  Dan  still,  her  Dan,  the  lively,  cheerful,  joyous, 
perhaps  even  frolicsome  Dan  once  more.  He  would  sport 
with  her  little  Ailee ;  he  would  play  with  her  as  he 
used  to  play  long  ago  with  another  little  girl  that  she 
herself  could  remember — tickling  her  under  her  armpits 
and  under  her  chin — while  she  sent  up  a  chorus  of  squeal- 
ing laughter. 

The  burden  of  Mona*s  long  years  of  weary  sorry  had  been 
so  suddenly  lifted  away  that  she  could  not  restrain  her 
thoughts  from  childish  sportiveness.  But  sometimes  she  re- 
membered Ewan,  and  then  her  heart  saddened,  and  some- 
times she  thought  of  herself,  and  then  it  flushed  full  of 
quick,  hot  blood.  And  oh  !  how  delicious  was  the  secret 
thing  that  sometimes  stole  up  between  her  visions  of  Dan 
and  the  high  destiny  that  was  before  him.  It  was  a 
vision  of  herself,  transfigured  by  his  noble  love,  resting 
upon  and  looking  up  to  him,  and  thus  passing  on  and 
on  and  on  to  the  end. 

Once  she  remembered,  with  a  chill  passing  through  her, 
that  in  the  writing  which  he  had  read  Dan  had  said  he 
was  ill.  But  what  of  that.''  She  was  going  to  him,  and 
would  nurse  him  back  to  health. 

And  Davy  Fayle  walking  at  her  side,  was  full  of  his 
own  big  notions,  too.  Mastha  Dan  would  be  Dempster, 
true ;  but  he'd  have  a  boat  for  his  pleasure,  sarten  sure. 
Davy  Fayle  would  sail  man  in  her,  perhaps  mate,  and 
maybe  skipper  some  day — who  knows  .'*  And  then,  lying 
aft  and  drifting  at  the  herrings,  and  smokin',  and  the 
stars  out,  and  the  moon  makin'  a  peep — aw,  well,  well, 
well! 

They  reached  the  end  of  their  journey  at  last.  It  was 
in  a  small  gorse-covered  house  far  over  the  wild  moor,  on 
the  edge  of  the  Chasms,  looking  straight  out  on  the  hungry 
sea.  In  its  one  bare  room  (which  was  without  fire,  and  was 
cheerless  with  little  light)  there  was  a  table,  a  settle,  a 
chair,  a  stool,  and  a  sort  of  truckle-bed.     Dan  was  there, 

262 


THE   DEEMSTER 

the  same,  yet,  oh !  how  diiFerent !  He  lay  on  the  bed  un- 
conscious, near  to  death  of  the  sickness — the  last  that  the 
scourge  was  to  slay. 


Of  this  story  of  great  love  and  great  suffering  what  is 
left  to  tell  ? 

There  are  moments  when  life  seems  like  the  blind  swirl 
of  a  bat  in  the  dusk — blundering,  irresponsible,  not  to  be 
counted  with,  the  swift  creature  of  evil  chance.  We  see 
a  little  child's  white  face  at  a  hospital  window,  a  strong  man 
toiling  hopelessly  against  wrong,  the  innocent  suffering  with 
the  guilty,  good  instincts  thwarted  and  base  purposes  pro- 
moted, and  we  ask  ourselves,  with  a  thrill  of  the  heart. 
What,  after  all,  is  God  doing  in  this  His  world  ?  And  from 
such  blind  labouring  of  chance  the  tired  and  beaten  genera- 
tions of  men  seem  to  find  it  reward  enough  to  drop  one 
after  one  to  the  hushed  realms  of  rest. 

Shall  we  marvel  very  much  if  such  a  moment  came  to  this 
pure  and  noble  woman  as  she  stood  in  the  death-chamber  of 
her  beloved,  with  whom,  after  years  of  longing,  she  was  at 
last  brought  face  to  face  ? 

But  again,  there  are  other  moments,  higher  and  better, 
when  there  is  such  a  thing  in  this  so  bewildering  world  as  the 
victory  of  vanquishment,  when  the  true  man  crushed  by  evil 
chance  is  yet  the  true  man  undestroyed  by  it  and  destroy- 
ing it,  when  Job  on  his  dunghill  is  more  to  be  envied  than 
Pharaoh  on  his  throne,  and  death  is  as  good  as  life. 

And  such  a  higher  moment  came  to  Mona  in  that  death- 
chamber.  She  sat  many  hours  by  Dan's  side,  waiting  for  the 
breaking  of  his  delirium  and  the  brief  space  of  consciousness 
and  of  peace  which  would  be  the  beginning  of  the  end.  It 
came  at  long,  long  length,  and,  ah  !  how  soon  it  came  ! 

The  night  had  come  and  gone  whilst  she  sat  and  watched 
When  the  sunrise  shot  red  through  the  skin-covered  window 
it  fell  on  Dan  and  awakened  him.  Opening  his  eyes  he  saw 
Mona,  and  his  soul  smiled  over  his  wasted  face.  He  could 
not  speak,  nor  could  he  lift  his  worn  hands.  She  knew  that 
the  time  was  near,  and  holding  back  her  grief,  like  wild 
creatures  held  by  the  leash,  she  dropped  to  her  knees,  and 
clasped  her  hands  together  to  pray.  And  while  she  prayed 
the  dying  man  repeated  some  of  the  words  after  her. 

264, 


"OUR   FATHER,   WHICH   ART   IN    HEAVEN" 

"  Our  Father/* — 

'^  Our— Father/'— 

*'  Which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name/* — 

"  Hallowed — be — Thy — name/' — 

"  Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  in  earth,  as  it  is  in 
heaven ;  give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ;  and  forgive  us  our 
trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us;  and 
lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil," — 

"  But — deliver — us — from — evil," — 

"  Amen/' — 

''Amen." 


THE   END 


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"  There  is  genius  in  the  book.  The  narrative  throbs  with  a  palpitation  of  virile 
force  and  nervous  vigor.  Read  it  as  a  mere  story,  and  it  is  absorbing  beyond  descrip- 
tion. Consider  it  as  a  historical  picture,  .  .  .  and  its  extraordinary  power  and  sig- 
nificance are  a.'^^axGnt."— Philadelphia  Press. 

"The  book  maybe  recommended  to  those  who  like  strong,  artistic,  and  exciting 
romances."— ^(?^/^«  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  Many  as  have  been  the  novels  which  have  the  Revolution  as  their  scene,  not  one 
surpasses,  if  equals,  in  thrilling  interest."— Cleveland  Plaiu  Dealer. 


T 


HE  REDS  OF  THE  MIDI.  An  Episode  of  the 
French  Revolution.  By  Felix  Gras.  Translated  from  the 
Provencal  by  Mrs.  Catharine  A.  Janvier.  With  an  Introduction 
by   Thomas  A.   Janvier.     With    Frontispiece.     i6mo.     Cloth, 

$1.50. 

"I  have  read  with  great  and  sustained  interest  '  The  Reds  of  the  South,' which  you 
were  good  enough  to  present  to  me.  Though  a  work  of  fiction,  it  aims  at  painting  the 
historical  features,  and  such  works  if  faithfully  executed  throw  more  light  than  many 
so  called  histories  on  the  true  roots  and  causes  of  the  Revolution,  which  are  so  widely 
and  so  gravely  misunderstood.  As  a  novel  it  seems  to  me  to  be  written  with  great 
skill"— ^Villiam  E.  Gladstone. 

"Patriotism,  a  profound  and  sj-^mpathetlc  insight  into  the  history  of  a  great  epoch, 
and  a  poet's  delicate  sensitiveness  to  the  beauties  of  form  and  expression  have  com- 
bined to  make  M.  Felix  Gras's  '  The  Reds  of  the  Midi '  a  work  of  real  literary  value. 
It  is  as  far  as  possible  removed  from  sensationalism ;  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  subdued, 
simple,  unassuming,  profoundly  sincere.  Such  artifice  as  the  author  has  found  it 
necessary  to  employ  has  been  carefully  concealed,  and  if  we  feel  its  presence,  it  is  only 
because  experience  has  taught  that  the  quality  is  indispensable  to  a  work  which  affects 
the  imagination  so  promptly  and  with  such  force  as  does  this  quiet  narrative  of  the 
French  Revolution."— A'^^w  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is  doubtful  whether  in  the  English  language  we  have  had  a  more  powerful, 
impressive,  artistic  picture  of  the  French  Revolution,  from  the  revolutionist's  point  of 
view,  than  that  presented  in  Felix  Gras's  '  The  Reds  of  the  Midi.'  .  .  .  Adventures 
follow  one  another  rapidly  ;  splendid,  brilliant  pictures  are  frequent,  and  the  thread  of 
a  tender,  beautiful  love  story  winds  in  and  out  of  its  pages." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express.  

D.   APPLETON  AND   COMPANY.   NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
By  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 

Uniform  edition.     Each,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

^HE    STANDARD    BEARER,      An    Historical 

"^        Romance. 

"  Mr.  Crockett's  book  is  distinctly  one  of  the  books  of  the  year.  Five  months  of 
1898  have  passed  without  bringing  to  the  reviewers'  desk  anything  to  be  compared 
with  it  in  beauty  of  description,  convincing  characterization,  absorbing  plot  and  humor- 
ous appeal.  The  freshness  and  sweet  sincerity  of  the  tale  are  most  invigorating,  and 
that  the  book  will  be  very  much  read  there  is  no  possible  doubt." — Boston  Bjidget. 

"  The  book  will  move  to  tears,  provoke  to  laughter,  stir  the  blood,  and  evoke  hero- 
isms of  history,  making  the  reading  of  it  a  delight  and  the  memory  of  it  a  stimulus  and 
a  joy." — New  York  Evangelist. 


L 


ADS'  LOVE.     Illustrated. 


It  seems  to  us  that  there  is  in  this  latest  product  much  of  the  realism  of  per- 
sonal experience.  However  modified  and  disguised,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  think  that 
the  writer's  per-^onality  does  not  present  itself  in  Saunders  McQuhirr.  .  .  .  Rarely  has 
the  author  drawn  more  truly  from  life  than  in  the  cases  of  Is'ance  and  'the  Hempie'; 
never  more  typical  Scotsman  of  the  humble  sort  than  the  farmer  Peter  Chrystie.' — 
London  A  thenceujn. 


c 


LEG    LCELLY,   ARAB    OF    THE    CITY.     His 

Progress  and  Adventures.     Illustrated. 

"A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  .  .  .  If  there  ever  was 
an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  ragamuffin." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr.  Crockett  give  us  a  brighter  or  more  graphic 
picture  of  contemporary  Scotch  life  than  in  'Cleg  Kelly.'  ...  It  is  one  of  the  great 
books." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


B 


OG-MYRTLE  AND  PEAT.     Third  edition. 


Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that  thrill  and 
burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are  fragments  of  the 
author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies  and  the 
life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating  in  expression's  giasp." — Boston 
Courier. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  reader  for 
its  genial  humor,  artistic  loc^  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal  of  character." — Boston 
Home  Journal. 


T 


HE  LILAC  SUNBONNET.     Eighth  edition. 


'A  love  story,  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old  fashioned,  wholesome,  sun- 
shiny kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who  is  merely  a 
good  and  beautiful  woman;  and  if  any  other  love  story  hall  so  sweet  has  been  written 
this  year  it  has  escaped  our  notice." — New  York  Times. 

"  The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth  of  love 
between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness  and  a  freshness, 
a  naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  places  'The  Lilac  Sunbonnet'  among  the  best 
stories  of  the  time." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK, 


D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY»S  PUBLICATIONS. 

By  a.  CONAN   DOYLEo 
Uniform  edition,     izmo.     Cloth ,  $i  30  der  volume, 
r  TNCLE    BERNAC.     A    Romance   of   the    Empire. 
^    Illustrated. 

"'Uncle  Bernac'  is  lor  a  truth  Dr.  Doyle's  Napoleon.  Viewed  as  a  picture  of  the 
little  man  in  the  gray  coat,  it  must  rank  before  anything  he  has  written.  The  fascina- 
;ion  of  it  is  extraordinary." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  From  the  opening  pages  the  clear  and  energetic  telling  of  the  story  never  falters 
and  our  attention  never  flags." — London  Observer. 

D  ODNE  V  STONE.     Illustrated. 

*'  A  remarkable  book,  worthy  of  the  pen  that  gave  us  '  The  White  Company,* 
*Micah  Clarke,'  and  other  notable  romances." — London  Daily  News. 

"  A  notable  and  very  brilliant  work  of  genius." — London  Speaker. 

"  '  Rodney  Stone '  is,  in  our  judgment,  distinctly  the  best  of  Dr.  Conan  Doyle's 
novels.  .  .  .  There  are  few  descriptions  in  fiction  that  can  vie  with  that  race  upon  the 
Brighton  road." — London  Times. 

y^BE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER   GERARD. 
■*■       A  Romance  of  the  Life  of  a  Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier.     Illus- 
trated. 

"  The  brigadier  is  brave,  resolute,  amorous,  loyal,  chivalrous ;  never  was  a  foe  mnr- 
ardent  in  battle,  more  clement  in  victory,  or  more  ready  at  need.  .  .  .  Gallantry,  humoi. 


martial  gayety,  moving  incident,  make  up  a  really  delightful  book." — London  Times. 

"  May  be  set  down  without  reservation  as  the 
Dr.  Doyle  has  ever  published." — Boston  Beacon. 


May  be  set  down  without  reservation  as  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  book  that 
le " 


Y^HE    STARK    MUNRO    LETTERS.     Being  a 
-^       Series  of  Twelve   Letters   written   by  Stark  Munro,  M.  B., 
to  his  friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during   the   years  1881-1884.     Illus- 
trated. 
"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock  Holmes,  and 
I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him." — Richard  le  Gallienne,  in  the  London  Star. 
"  'The  Stark  Munro  Letters'  is  a  bit  of  real  literature.  ...  Its  reading  will  be  an 
epoch-making  event  in  many  a  life." — Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

jDOUND     THE    RED    LAMP.      Being  Facts  and 
*■  ^     Fancies  of  Medical  Life. 

"Too  much  can  not  be  said  in  praise  of  these  strong  productions,  that  to  read, 
keep  one's  heart  leaping  to  the  throat,  and  the  mind  in  a  tumult  of  anticipation  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  N  o  series  of  short  stories  in  modem  literature  can  approach  them." — Hart- 
ford Times. 

"If  Dr.  A.  'Conan  Doyle  had  not  already  placed  himself  in  the  front  rank  of  living 
English  writers  by  '  The  Refugees,'  and  other  of  his  larger  stories,  he  would  surely  da 
*o  by  these  fifteen  short  tales." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

D.    APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


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GILBERT   PARKER'S    BEST   BOOKS. 
Uniform  Edition. 

'T^HE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY.  Being  the 
Memoirs  of  Captain  Robert  Moray,  sometime  an  Officer  in 
the  Virginia  Regiment,  and  afterwards  of  Amherst's  Regiment. 
Illustrated,  $1.50. 

"  Another  historical  romance  of  the  vividness  and  intensity  of 'The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty  '  has  never  come  from  the  pen  of  an  American.  Mr.  Parker's  latest  work  may 
without  hesitation  be  set  down  as  the  best  he  has  done.  From  the  first  chapter  to  the 
last  word  interest  in  the  book  never  wanes ;  one  finds  it  difficult  to  interrupt  the  narra- 
tive with  breathing  space.  It  whirls  with  excitement  and  strange  adventure.  .  .  .  All 
of  the  scenes  do  homage  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  Parker,  and  make  '  The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty'  one  of  the  books  of  the  year." — Chicago  Record. 

"Mr.  Gilbert  Parker  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  excellence  of  his  latest  story, 
'  The  Seats  of  the  Mighty,'  and  his  readers  are  to  be  congratulated  on  the  direction 
which  his  talents  have  taken  therein.  ...  It  is  so  good  that  we  do  not  stop  to  think  of 
its  literature,  and  the  personality  of  Doltaire  is  a  masterpiece  of  creative  art. " — New 
York  Mail  and  Express. 

'T'HE    TRAIL    OF    THE    SWORD.      A    Novel 
^      I1.25. 

"  Mr.  Parker  here  adds  to  a  reoutation  already  wide,  and  anew  demonstrates  his 
power  of  pictorial  portrayal  and  of  strong  dramatic  situation  and  climax." — Philadel- 
phia Bulletin. 

"The  tale  holds  the  reader's  interest  from  first  to  last,  for  it  is  full  of  fire  and  spirit, 
abounding  in  incident,  and  marked  by  good  character  drawing." — Pittsburg  Times. 


T 


'HE  TRESPASSER.     $1.25. 


"  Interest,  pith,  force,  and  charm — Mr.  Parker's  new  story  possesses  all  these 
qualities.  .  .  .  Almost  bare  of  synthetical  decoration,  his  paragraphs  are  stirring  be- 
cause they  are  real.  We  read  at  times—as  we  have  read  the  great  masters  of  romance 
— breathlessly." — The  Critic. 

"  Gilbert  Parker  writes  a  strong  novel,  but  thus  far  this  is  his  masterpiece.  ...  It 
is  one  of  the  great  novels  of  the  year." — Boston  Advertiser. 


T 


'HE  TRANSLATION  OF  A  SAVAGE.     $1.25. 


'•  A  book  which  no  one  will  be  satisfied  to  put  down  until  the  end  has  been 
matter  of  certainty  and  assurance." — The  Nation. 

"A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  of  construction."-^ 
Boston  Home  yournal. 


M: 


RS.  FALCHION     $1.25. 


'  A  well-knit  story,  told  in  an  exceedingly  interesting  way,  and  holding  the 
reader's  attention  to  the  end." 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


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T 


SOME   CHOICE    FICTION. 

EACH,    i6MO,    cloth,    SPECIAL    BINDING,    $1.25. 

HE  MYSTERY  OF  CHOICE,     By  R.  W.  Cham- 
bers, author  of  "  The  Moon-Maker,"  '*  The  Red  Republic,"  etc 

"Probably  Mr,  Robert  W.  Chambers  Is  to-day  the  most  promising  American  writer 
of  fiction  of  his  age.  .  .  .  '  The  Mystery  of  Choice '  reveals  his  most  delightful  quali- 
ties at  their  best.  .  .  .  Imagination  he  has  first  of  all,  and  it  is  of  a  fine  quality ;  con- 
stant action  he  achieves  without  apparent  effort ;  naturalness,  vividness,  the  power  of 
description,  and  especially  local  color,  come  to  him  like  delight  in  one  of  those  glorious 
mornings  when  distance  seems  annihilated."— ^oj/o«  Herald. 


M 


ARCH  HARES.     By  Harold  Frederic,  author 

of  "  The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware,"  "  In  the  Valley,"  etc. 

"  One  of  the  most  cheerful  novels  we  have  chanced  upon  for  many  a  day.  It  has 
much  of  the  rapidity  and  vigor  of  a  smardy  written  farce,  with  a  pervadmg  freshness  a 
smartly  written  farce  rarely  possesses.  ...  A  book  decidedly  worth  reading."— Z,<>«- 
don  Saturday  Review. 

"  A  striking  and  original  story,  .  .  .  effective,  pleasing,  and  very  capable."— Z,i>»- 
don  Literary  World. 

"  Mr.  Frederic  has  found  fairyland  where  few  of  us  would  dream  of  looking  for  it. 
.  .  .  'March  Hares' has  a  joyous  impetus  which  carries  everything  before  it;  and  it 
enriches  a  class  of  fiction  which  unfortunately  is  not  copious." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

r^REEN  GATES.     An   Analysis  of  Foolishness.     By 
^^     Mrs.  K.  M.  C.  Meredith  (Johanna  Staats),  author  of  "  Drum- 
sticks," etc. 

"  Crisp  and  delightful.  .  .  .  Fascinating,  not  so  much  for  what  it  suggests  as  for 
its  manner,  and  the  cleverly  outlined  people  who  walk  through  its  pages." — Chicago 
Times- Herald. 

"An  original  strain,  bright  and  vivacious,  and  strong  enough  in  its  foolishness  and 
its  unexpected  tragedy  to  prove  its  sterling  worth." — Boston  Herald. 


T 


HE  STATEMENT  OF  STELLA  MABERLY. 

By  F.  Anstey,  author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "The  Giant's  Robe," 

etc. 

"  Most  admirably  done.  .  .  .  We  read  fascinated,  and  fully  believing  every  word 
we  read.  .  .  .  The  book  has  deeply  interested  us,  and  even  thrilled  us  more  than 
once." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  A  wildly  fantastic  story,  thrilling  and  impressive.  .  .  .  Hasan  air  of  vivid  reality, 
.  .  .  of  bold  conception  and  vigorous  treatment.  .  .  .  A  very  noteworthy  novelette." '-* 
London  Times. 


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STEPHEN   CRANE'S   BOOKS. 
'T^HE    THIRD    VIOLET.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo. 

"  By  this  latest  product  of  his  genius  our  impression  of  Mr.  Crane  is  con- 
firmed that,  for  psychological  insight,  for  dramatic  intensity,  and  for  the  potency  of 
phrase,  he  is  already  in  the  front  rank  of  English  and  American  writers  of  fiction, 
and  that  he  possesses  a  certain  separate  quality  which  places  him  apart." — London 
A  cadetny. 

"  The  whole  book,  from  beginning  to  end,  fairly  bristles  with  fun.  ...  It  is  adapted 
for  pure  entertainment,  yet  it  is  not  easily  put  down  or  forgotten." — Boston  Herald. 


T 


HE  LITTLE  REGIMENT,   and  Other  Episodes 
of  the  American  Civil  War.     l2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oO. 

"  In  '  The  Little  Regiment '  we  have  again  studies  of  the  volunteers  waiting  impa- 
tiently to  fight  and  fighting,  and  the  impression  of  the  contest  as  a  private  soldier  hears, 
sees,  and  feels  it,  is  really  wonderful.  The  reader  has  no  privileges.  He  must,  it  seems, 
take  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  stand  in  the  mud,  wade  in  the  river,  fight,  yell,  swear, 
and  sweat  with  the  men.  He  has  some  sort  of  feeling,  when  it  is  all  over,  that  he  has 
been  doing  just  these  things.  This  sort  of  writing  needs  no  praise.  It  will  make  its 
way  to  the  hearts  of  men  without  praise." — New  York  Times. 

"  Told  with  a  verve  that  brings  a  whiff  of  burning  powder  to  one's  nostrils.  .  .  . 
In  some  way  he  blazons  the  scene  before  our  eyes,  and  makes  us  feel  the  very  impetus 
of  bloody  war." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 


M 


AGGIE:    A     GIRL     OF     THE     STREETS. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  By  writing  *  Maggie '  Mr.  Crane  has  made  for  himself  a  permanent  place  in  lit' 
erature.  .  .  .  Zola  himself  scarcely  has  surpassed  its  tremendous  portrayal  of  throb* 
bing,  breathing,  moving  life." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"Mr.  Crane's  story  should  be  read  for  the  fidelity  with  which  it  portrays  a  life 
that  is  potent  on  this  island,  along  with  the  best  of  us.  It  is  a  powerful  portrayal,  and, 
if  somber  and  repellent,  none  the  less  true,  none  the  less  freighted  with  appeal  to  those 
who  are  able  to  assist  in  righting  wrongs." — New  York  Times. 


T 


HE  RED  BADGE  OF  COURAGE.     An  Episode 

of  the  American  Civil  War.     l2mo.     Cloth,  $i.oo. 

"  Never  before  have  we  had  the  seamy  side  of  glorious  war  so  well  depicted.  .  .  . 
The  action  of  the  story  throughout  is  splendid,  and  all  aglow  with  color,  movement, 
and  vim.  The  style  is  as  keen  and  bright  as  a  sword-blade,  and  a  Kipling  has  done 
nothing  better  in  this  line." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  American  fiction  to  compare  with  it.  .  .  .  Mr.  Crane  has 
added  to  American  literature  something  that  has  never  been  done  before,  and  that  is, 
in  its  own  peculiar  way,  inimitable." — Boston  Beacon. 

"A  truer  and  completer  picture  of  war  than  either  Tolstoy  or  Zola." — London  Ntvt 
Review. 


New   York:  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


b.  aPPLETON  and  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
SOME   NOTABLE   FICTION   IN 

Appletons'  Town  and  Country  Library. 


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T 


T 


'HE    QUEEN'S    CUP.     A    Novel      By    G.    A. 
Henty. 

The  interest  of  Mr.  Henty's  brilliant  novel  is  never  in  doubt.  He  has  written  a 
most  engrossing  romance  of  love,  war,  intrigue,  and  adventure  which  will  enlist  the 
immediate  attention  of  those  who  look  to  fiction  for  recreation.  "  The  Queen's  Cup  " 
seems  certain  to  be  one  of  the  most  successful  of  this  popular  author's  novels. 

^HE    LOOMS    OF    TIME.      A  Novel     By  Mrs. 
Hugh  Eraser,  author  of  "  Palladia,"  etc. 

In  the  prologue  the  author  pictures  some  thrilling  scenes  of  the  Spanish  invasion  of 
Peru.  The  vivid  sketches  of  the  Spanish  attitude  toward  the  natives  are  peculiarly- 
suggestive.  The  main  action  of  the  story  is  modem,  but  the  scene  of  the  romantic  and 
Unexpected  incidents  of  the  tale  is  still  among  the  foothills  of  the  Andes.  A  search  for 
gold,  with  its  accompaniments  of  greed  and  crime,  ard  a  story  of  love  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  the  unfolding  of  a  tale  characterized  by  absorbing  interest. 

y^HE  MILLIONAIRES.     A  Novel     By  F.  Frank- 
-*       FORT  Moore,  author  of  "  A  Gray  Eye  or  So,"  etc. 

"  Whoever  would  spend  a  half  day  in  the  company  of  clever  and  entertaining  people 
should  take  for  an  afternoon's  companion  F  Frankfort  Moore's  'The  Millionaires.' 
.  .  .  This  is  one  of  the  brightest  of  summer  novels." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

TOHN  OF  STRATHBOURNE.  A  Romance  of 
^      the  Days  of  Francis  I.     By  R.  D.  Chetwode. 

"It  is  a  clever  little  book,  and  interesting  enough  to  while  away  an  hour  most 
pleasantly.  .  .  .  The  author  knows  his  ground,  he  knows  history,  and  above  all  he 
knows  how  to  tell  a  story.  The  characters  are  well  drawn,  and  the  plot  is  put  together 
in  a  skillful  manner.  'John  of  Strathbourne  '  is  well  worthy  of  a  place  among  historical 
romances." — Washington  Times. 

llyTATERFAMILIAS.     By  Ada  Cambridge,  author 

•^  ^-^  of  "  Fidelis,"  "  A  Marriage  Ceremony,"  "  The  Three  Miss 
Kings,"  "  My  Guardian,"  etc. 

"  The  pleasant  impression  left  is  a  lasting  one." — New  York  Times. 

"The  story  is  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  farms,  the  aroma  of  the  salt  sea,  and  the 
even  sweeter  essence  that  exhales  from  the  homely  virtues,  practiced  amid  simple  sur- 
roundings, where  family  ties  are  strong,  and  where  love,  loyal  and  true,  reigns  as 
queen." — Philadelphia  Item. 


T 


ORN  SAILS.     By  Allen  Raine. 


It  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before  us,  very 
real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of  Welsh  character — 
the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath,  .  .  .  We  call  this  a  well- 
written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its  romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life 
than  ours." — Detroit  Free  Press. 


D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,   NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON   AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


T 


SOME   LEADING   FICTION. 

'HE  GODS,  SOME  MORTALS,  AND  LORD 
WICKENHAM.  By  John  Oliver  Hobbes.  With  Por- 
trait.    i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"One  of  the  most  refreshing  novels  of  the  period,  full  of  grace,  spirit,  force,  feeling, 
and  literary  charm." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  Here  is  the  sweetness  of  a  live  love  story.  ...  It  is  to  be  reckoned  among  the 
brilliants  as  a  novel." — Boston  Courier. 

"  Mrs.  Craigie  has  taken  her  place  among  the  novelists  of  the  day.  It  is  a  high 
place  and  a  place  apart.  Her  method  is  her  own,  and  she  stands  not  exactly  on  the 
threshold  of  a  great  career,  but  already  within  the  temple  of  fame." — G.  IV.  Snialley, 
in  the  Tribune. 

1\/TAELCH0.     By  the  Hon.  Emily  Lawless,  author 
IVl  of  ..  Grania,"  "  Hurrish,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"A  paradox  of  literary  genius.  It  is  not  a  history,  and  yet  it  has  more  of  the 
stuff  of  history  in  it,  more  of  the  true  national  character  and  fate,  than  any  historical 
monograph  we  know.  It  is  not  a  novel,  and  yet  it  fascinates  us  more  than  any  novel." 
— London  Spectator. 

"  Abounds  in  thrilling  incidents.  .  .  .  Above  and  beyond  all,  the  book  charms  by 
reason  of  the  breadth  of  view,  the  magnanimity,  and  the  tenderness  which  animate  the 
author." — London  A  thenceum. 


A 


C 


N  IMAGINA  TIVE  MAN.  By  Robert  S.  Hich- 
ENS,  author  of  "  The  Folly  of  Eustace,"  "  The  Green  Carna- 
tion," etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  study  in  character.  .  .  .  Just  as  entertaining  as  though  it  were  the  conven- 
tional story  of  love  and  marriage.  The  clever  hand  of  the  author  of  '  The  Green  Car- 
nation' is  easily  detected  in  ihe  caustic  wit  and  pointed  epigram." — Jeannetie  L. 
Glider,  in  the  New  York  World. 

ORRUPTION.     By  Percy  White,  author  of  "Mr. 
Bailey-Martin,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  A  drama  of  biting  intensity.  A  tragedy  of  inflexible  purpose  and  relentless  ra- 
sult."— Fail  Mail  Gazette. 

"  There  is  intrigue  enough  in  it  for  those  who  love  a  story  of  the  ordinary  kind,  and 
the  political  part  is  perhaps  more  attractive  in  its  sparkle  and  variety  of  incident  than 
the  real  thing  itself."— Z,^«^(3«  Daily  News. 

HARD  WOMAN.     A  Story  in  Scenes.    By  Violet 
Hunt.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  A  good  story,  bright,  keen,  and  dramatic.  ...  It  is  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  will 
give  you  a  new  sensation." — New  York  Herald. 

"  A  creation  that  does  Mrs.  Hunt  infinite  credit,  and  places  her  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  younger  novelists.  .  .  .  Brilliantly  drawn,  quivering  with  life,  adroit,  quiet-witted, 
unfalteringly  insolent,  and  withal  strangely  magnetic." — London  Standard. 

D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


A 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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